


o thou, destroyer named

by soitgoes



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence from episode 3, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Outpost 3, millory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16704433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soitgoes/pseuds/soitgoes
Summary: They are like two wounded animals circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first.aka Michael makes good on his offer to take Mallory to the Sanctuary.millory. outpost 3 au.





	1. mercy is just a five letter word

**Author's Note:**

> so maybe I didn't actually watch the show beyond episode three....in any case. I started writing this before I heard about the finale and so I'm just gonna pretend that only up to episode three exists. sue me. 
> 
> also I made up a last name for mallory. don't come at me with any canon compliance shit. I don't care.

 

If you had told Michael Langdon a year ago that he would be running around the wastelands doing reconnaissance on outpost failures he would have not only laughed in your face he'd probably also pop your skull like a balloon with nothing more than a glance. Langdon isn't exactly known for his penchant for mercy. There had been a slew of outpost failures at the beginning. At least ten had fallen in the initial chaos of bombfall. The rest held for a little while but soon enough more reports of fallen outposts came pouring in. The first outpost to fall after the initial blast was 12. When the news had come in, only two week after the bombs fell, Michael had barely taken notice. The outposts were never meant to last all that long anyway, a year maybe two. Just mid-tier new-money assholes who thought they were buying security but really they were throwing money in a pit. The next to fall was 23 and then 30 after only month. Then 31 through 44 in one fell swoop. Spread across ten countries and thousands of miles, their lights all go out at once. That's when someone starts noticing. They send a couple squads out. They either come back with nothing or they don't come back at all. 

 

By the time concerns about the outposts fall to Michael, he's practically jumping at the chance to get away from the insufferable rich assholes he’s had to endure for the last year. As it turns out, the apocalypse is a lot less unholy sanction and more...red tape. Michael is young but he wasn’t a fool. He knew what ending the world would entail. He had been more than prepared for the pain and the screams of anguish. He had never been squeamish about blood or violence, those things all had come so naturally to him. But what he hadn’t expected was the sheer boredom once the dust fell. Surely the apocalypse should be a little more fun. He's not quite sure what he expects to find in Outpost 3. It's the only one left that still consistently attempts contact with the Cooperative. At the very least, it should provide some entertainment.

 

When he spots the three figures through the haze on his way to Outpost 3, Michael knows immediately what they are. Lost causes. Practically dead. But still, he stops and once he steps out of the cabin, the woman immediately crowds in. She is saying something to him, pushing the child at her feet toward him. He had to give her credit. Towering nearly six feet tall in his dusty, pitch black bio suit, he must look like the Death or the Devil himself and in a way he was both. Still, she pushes her kid forward.

 

“Please, we have nowhere to go, no way to survive,” she pleads. “Have mercy.”

 

He looks down at the child. Even from above it is a horror. Angry, red patches of skin covered most of its head. Bald, blotchy and painful. It kept its head down, perhaps too weak to even lift its face to look him in the eye.

 

“Please,” whispers the woman, pushing the kid forward. “Mercy, have mercy.”

 

Now the mother has no problem looking him in the face. And though she too is a horror to behold, the eyes are still good. Great, big, mournful eyes, dark brown. Strategic. He can respect that. And perhaps if he had been any other person, any other creature he would have taken pity and put them out of their misery. Bad luck for her.

 

He crouches down until he’s face to face with the woman. He doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to tap into any kind of supernatural force to see that this wretched, ugly creature would offer not just herself but her last living child up for slaughter. No hesitation. If only so they could finally find release.

 

He reaches out one, heavily-gloved hand and places it gently, almost affectionately on the kid’s ruined head. He then moves to curve his fingers around the mother’s jaw. She closes those doe eyes and breathes out a sigh. Of relief? Of pleasure? Or maybe she’s just tired. He doesn’t care.

 

He stands. The woman’s still got her eyes shut with that stupid look on her face like she's so grateful. With his other hand he pulls a knife from a pocket in his bio suit.

 

“Help us,” she pleads.

 

He throws the knife at her feet.

 

“Help yourself.”

 

Her screams vibrate through the air long after he’s climbed back into his carriage and carried on. The anguish echoing into the mist makes him feel more alive, more himself than he’s felt in a while.

 

* * *

Outpost 3 turns out to be a delightful little pocket of chaos that he’s happy to nestle his claws into. He’s pleasantly surprised when he sees her again, his Ms. Mead. She doesn’t recognize him and she’s stuck to Venable’s side but it isn’t a problem. She will know him again. Less pleasant, though equally entertaining, is the presence of the confusing little puzzle that is Mallory.

 

Michael is loathe to admit that she catches him off guard. Her interview starts off as predictable as possible. She’s an open book to him and he doesn’t need to read her file to figure her out. She’s from some small town in Colorado. Moved to the big city only to find out that she’s destined to be nothing more than a minuscule parasite doomed to suck on the teat of vapid idiots like Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt just to survive.

 

But the longer the interview goes on the more it becomes apparent. There’s something missing. Something is amiss with little Miss Mallory. As she tells him about how her parents split when she was young, her first boyfriend, how she began working for Ms. Vanderbilt, she begins to sound less like a person giving an interview and more like someone reciting rote memorization. He can’t put his finger on it but something just isn’t right. It’s not that she’s not pathetic and so disgustingly _human_. It’s not what she is but rather what she isn’t. It’s more like someone has hollowed her out. A pumpkin that’s been scrapped clean of all its insides.

 

“She needs me,” Mallory says with the slightest, bland smile and it’s honestly a little weird, unnerving even. The lights are on but nobody's home.

 

Still he keeps going. She’s visibly uncomfortable as he gives his speech about the fruit and the fire. He’s only half disingenuous. He’s being more than a little honest and he has no idea why. Her eyes look darker in this light and when he reaches out to touch her, she starts to cry.

 

And the next thing he knows the room is on fire.

 

Mallory stays low after that and he’s content to let her. There’s still a plethora of juicy morsels to taunt and toy with. He lets her go, lets her crawl on her belly back to the shadows. The next time he sees her she’s a corpse. The fun runs its eventual course. Venable got a hole in her chest the size of his fist. Mead is his once more and Michael feels severely rejuvenated. So maybe that’s why he pauses at the sight of the inhabitants of Outpost 3 splayed out on the floor like broken toys. Maybe he’s just feeling himself a little too much at this point and that’s why he finds her among the wreckage and crouches down besides her. He breathes into her.

 

He’s prepared to see what comes next, knows that death needs crawl out of her like a beetle and life will claw into her. It takes a few moments but soon enough she’s heaving but besides that she’s oddly silent when she stares up at him, jaw slack, death still coloring her lips. She looks like shit.

 

Michael had often wondered why it is that people have children. And the conclusion he has come to is that it’s ultimately an act of vanity. At some point in people’s lives they realize things are screwed up beyond repair and of course they are right. So they decide to start again. Wipe the slate clean. Start fresh. They have children. Little carbon copies they can turn to and say, "You will do what I could not. You will succeed where I have failed." Because they want someone to get it _right_ this time. But not him. Not Michael.

 

Personally speaking, he was more than content to watch his new world eat these maggots alive. But there’s something about the girl’s eyes as she tears her way back into consciousness. Her eyes are liquid in the firelight, red-ringed and glittering. She finds his eyes and he feels something pull at him, a cord tied to something within him that had been slack this whole time now pulled taut. Then she screams and Michael wonders if this is what it’s like to see a child be born.

 

“Welcome back, Mallory.”

 


	2. welcome back, mallory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mallory's pov...kinda. i guess. i don't even fucking know. these first two chapters are more character studies than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh yeah. so this is fucking trash and I'm kinda just rambling at this point. I have no idea what I put down so don't @ me about it. I'll go back and try to edit it later. peace out yall. see ya next time.
> 
> also.  
> did it piss anybody else off that mallory seemed infinitely more interesting in the first three episodes than in the flash backs??? she just had so much more potential. like her speech about coco needing her was so weird and kinda...unhealthy. loved that shit. but she got so boring in the flashbacks. idk. I mean I love a flower bitch but there just seemed to be nothing beyond her character in the flashbacks beyond "good".

_Resurgence is like being born again. You come back screaming. Always. At first the screaming is only on the inside but soon enough it will find a way out. You will scream. That’s something you can trust. You come back reaching, clawing at the air and looking for anyone, anything to hold on to. Everything is new. Everything is bright and burning. It’s so painful you forget your own name._

 

Somewhere at the back of her head she knows that this knowledge is not her own. A voice is ringing in her head that isn’t her own. Someone has explained this to her before.

 

A face floats above her like a specter. He has an eerie beauty about him that is repellent yet intoxicating. She’s still half dead but she _feels._ At the sight of his face, something pulls at her. It’s visceral, innate. She knows his face before she even remembers her own name.

 

_Resurgence is like dying all over again. It is the worst way to come back. The beetle, the dust in your lungs, dead blood pooling in any place it can settle. And it all has to come out, one way or another. Better to descend. Better to experience hell on loop. Better to return through the dust. This revelation appears suddenly, as yet another voice in her head. She still has yet to remember her name._

 

To put it frankly, resurgence sucks but it’s different for everyone. For Mallory, it’s a little like football.

 

Mallory had always been fascinated by football but for all the wrong reasons. Or so she’s been told. She remembers the first time she watched a game. She can’t be any older than four because her daddy is still living with them. He’s sitting in his old, ratty recliner. The smell of beer and sweat permeates the air. On the tv screen, a game plays out in silence.

 

Mallory can’t be sure if he had actually watched the game on mute. She tries to remember her father. Is that the kind of thing he did? She can’t be sure but she remembers it being silent the first time she sees a game of American football. It’s brutal the way they all crash into one another, the violence only heightened by the noiselessness. It scares her but also beguiles her. Even then, as young as she was, she understands the concept of momentum. Each violent encounter, the savage dance serves to facilitate a movement towards a goal.

 

She’s only four but she’s rapt as one team crawls forward. Her tiny fists are balled so tightly but she hardly notices. It isn’t until hours later when her mother puts her to bed that anyone notices the bloody, crescent-shaped marks on her palms.  Closer, closer, _closer_. Her body is a rubber band, pulled so tightly that she could snap. She can hardly breathe. And then, just like that, it’s over. Her father swears, tosses his nearly empty can of beer at the tv. She’s confused. She doesn’t understand what’s just happened. It’s her wailing that draws her mother’s attention. A screaming match begins between her parents.

 

The game is futile, that’s what really fascinates her. And though it is true that this could be said of any sport, in no other is it as evident and frustrating as football. Back and forth, back and forth. Even if you make a point, even if you win, you always end up back at the middle of the field, at the beginning. Win or lose. You get reset. Nothing changes. Nothing grows.

 

If God and the Devil were playing _football,_ this cold, stone floor beneath her is their field. She’s the only player. She just has to figure out what team she’s on.

 

“Welcome back, Mallory.”

 

The face above her speaks her name and the sound of it is a sledgehammer to her chest. She opens her mouth and screams.

* * *

 

There’s blood in her mouth. It cold and bitter and she can’t shake the feeling that she’s been here before. She tries to sit up but fails. There’s a shuffle of shoes on the floor beside her head and a ruffle of fabric. A hand slips beneath her neck and helps her up. It does the trick and she flies forward. Blood and bile comes up in equal measure. It spills out of her into her lap. Through tears she sees that she’s got it all over her hands, her apron, her sleeves. It’s disgusting. The smell rises to her nose that’s already burning and full of the smell of her own sick. It turns her stomach. And through it all there’s a steady hand on her back. It doesn’t move, doesn’t make an effort to comfort her but it's comforting all the same.

 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles first to herself into her own ruined lap. Then she turns to look into the face that she knew in this new life before she even knew her name. “I’m so sorry.”

 

His face is void at first, beautiful but frighteningly still. It gives nothing away and Mallory begins to feel sick again but then he smiles. His lips curve slowly, carving his face nearly cherubic. And that smile, so lovely, so perfect, it would have been sweet if not for the eyes. Bright and devouring. She smiles back, acutely aware of how the blood must still be coating her teeth. As her mouth moves into a shaky smile, she can feel her chapped lips crack.

 

It’s Mead that helps her to her feet but Mallory notices that the grim, older woman never looks at her. Mead’s always got her eyes glued to Langdon. They seem to communicate without words. It’s a sudden change and Mallory doesn’t understand how it has happened. Venable is nowhere to be seen.

 

“You need to get yourself cleaned up,” Mead says and though she isn't affectionate or even kind, Mead is careful at least.

 

It is a strange sensation to be treated carefully. Mallory doesn’t really know how she became a personal assistant. In fact, she has no fucking clue. She can’t remember what her father was like. Can’t remember most of what her life was like. That’s not right. That’s not normal is it? But there’s this whisper at the back of head that tells her not to worry, to ignore the gaps, the static in her head where her life is supposed to be.

 

Here’s what she tells herself. Assisting just comes naturally to her. She actually _enjoys_ how her clients’ incompetence strikes such a high contrast to her own capabilities. Mallory would hate to admit it but there’s a high that comes with having someone be so completely dependent on her. She feels like she’s worth something. And for the first few years Mallory believes that she’s excellent at her job. Glowing reviews, high praise and all that shit. It isn’t until Coco that Mallory starts to doubt her abilities. Coco makes her feel like she’s back at that fifty yard line. Futile.

 

But she wasn’t lying to Langdon. She didn’t want to kill Coco. Maybe maim her a little. Rip her hair out, break her fingers, her legs. Just enough to make her even more dependent. Because the sad truth is that Mallory doesn’t just need Coco to need her, she likes it. It occurs to Mallory that she’s never really understood how life works.

 

Langdon watches them for a few moments more before turning and leaving the pair behind. The sight of him leaving sparks an ache in her chest. That pulling once again and she gasped so slightly that Mead didn’t even notice, continuing to urge her forward. But Langdon pauses as though he feels it too. He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t look at her but she feels him, feels him pull at her.

 

“Ms. Mead,” he says. “Once you’re done with that prepare for our journey.”

 

Mead doesn’t reply. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she continues to push Mallory forward. Mallory’s legs are gelatin beneath her. Mead pulls Mallory closer, causing Mallory to lean further into the older woman. Mallory has no choice but to drop her head on to Mead’s shoulder It is surreal. The taste of her own blood is still in her mouth and that string pulling at her chest. Pulling, pulling, pulling. She thinks to herself, what happens when it snaps?

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much all I got out of this weekend. I didn't even look my fucking family in the face for this. Are you happy??? Are you not entertained?!?!?!?!?
> 
> .........jk I had a nice Thanksgiving. It's got bad origins but I like seeing my family for a brief amount of time. 
> 
> Hope I didn't disappoint. See ya, fuckos.

_His face, floating above her like a specter._

 

The memory sticks to her like burnt sugar. It scorches her. His face in the firelight. The blue of his eyes. His hair like a curtain of gold. Beautiful. Terrible. She could not tell the difference. Each of his feature are like a knife to the chest anyway. And yet, he is the only thing she can think of. The memory of him smiling like a predator baring its teeth; it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.

 

Behind her, she hears a door open and close. Mallory thinks that it must be Mead. Ms. Mead had stayed with her a little while to help her undress and get her into the tub. The stoic woman had lingered for a couple of minutes but once she was convinced Mallory wasn’t going to suddenly drop dead, Mead had left. Mallory wondered why the older woman had returned.

 

“Ms. Mead?” Mallory mumbles into the stale air but gets no response.

 

She’s shivering, a sign that night has fallen above ground. Nuclear winter is in full swing. It doesn't help that she’s been feeling like absolute shit since she woke up with her own death in her mouth. Shaky, nauseous, disoriented. Her skin is raw from absent-mindedly dry brushing at it for an hour. The great stone tub was bone dry. A small bowl of recycled water had been set out for her along with a ratty rag. All potable was under close lock and key. Ever since bombfall, sponge baths were the order of the land.

 

“Sorry,” Mallory mumbles barely meaning it. “I haven't even started washing.”

 

There’s no response but Mallory can feel eyes on her. She reaches for the rag and dips it into the bowl. The water is ice cold. The cool water soothes her aching skin but there's a hollowness to the sensation. It's almost as if she's watching it happen to someone else. Someone else's hands wrapped around a damp cloth. Someone else's skin. Someone else's _pain._

 

“Am I dead?” she whispers, pausing to look down into the watered bowl.

 

She can see her reflection in the darkness. Her eyes are shadowed and her skin almost gray. She feels a pressure building just below her sternum. A sudden expansion of something within her, an emptiness is yawning open. Great big jaws unhinging within her. She doubles over fearing that if she isn't careful she'll be entirely devoured.

 

Her mind whirls  She's in the air. She’s pinned to the floor. She's spinning. She’s nowhere. She’s everywhere, Mallory feels her every atom scattered to the wind. Her body breaking down into their parts. Her parts to molecules. Molecules to atoms to quarks. She's unraveling.

 

Then suddenly there's a gloved hand upon her back. The sensation makes her skin burst out in goose pimples. She's beneath her skin again, no longer dust to the cosmic wind. She's Mallory. For all her broken memories, her bloodly teeth, her empty heart, at least she's Mallory again. At least she is Mallory.

 

“I'm scared,” she confesses.

 

The hand travels up from the small of her back. Each finger runs up and over the vertebrae of her spine. Slow, languid movements and Mallory becomes suddenly aware that she was mistaken. A hand grips her neck and she should feel trapped, afraid but all she wants is to feel more. She leans back and looks up knowing exactly what she will see and still it leaves her breathless. She turns her face up. 

 

And there he is, above her. Like a ghost. 

* * *

She had called out to him thinking that he's Mead. He could have corrected her but doesn't see the point. Instead, he watches her. She's so small. She can't be much more than five feet tall. Huddled in on herself in that vast stone tub, she looks even smaller than that. Life in the outpost had not been kind to her. Her limbs are too thin, skin sallow. He can see each vertebrae in her spine, protruding up against her skin. She's like a paper doll, so small and thin. So _fragile_. It makes him want to tear her apart.

 

She apologizes for something as silly as taking her time but he can see inside of her. Mallory says sorry but what she means is won't you please look away now. Mallory says sorry but what she means is please fuck off.

 

Michael can feel her unraveling. She curls into herself. And he moves forward like a car on a track. The momentum is undeniable, inevitable. She moves forward into herself and he, for whatever reason, is drawn after her. 

 

When he touches her, it feels like touching a hot stove. He can feel her fever through his gloves. That's no good. Up close he can see how the sweat beads her skin. He can feel her trembling beneath his hand.

 

“I'm scared,” she says her voice hoarse and shaking.

 

He doesn't know why but something in her confession, perhaps the pain, maybe the raw honesty, makes him want to touch her further. He runs his hand up from the small of her back to her neck. He touches every little bump, each vertebrae. It isn't enough. He wants more.

 

He wraps his hand around her thin neck and to his delicious surprise she leans into his touch. She slides back and tilts her head to look him in the face. His hand slides to her throat. She fits so easily in his hand.

 

Her bareness is a revelation. Not just her body but her _soul_. Her chest rises and falls in uneven strides. She stares up at him with eyes so wide and bright that he forgets about the sickly sweat on her brow. He moves from her throat up to her cheek pulling her closer. She still smells of sick and death but beneath that, beneath her skin he smells her blood and beneath that there is her soul. It unfurls before him, a great abyss.

 

He leans down and presses his forehead to hers. She gasps at touch of his skin. He knows she's crying, those great big eyes spilling out tears. She cries so easily for him.

 

She's horrified. She's relieved. She's burning. She is so cold. He feels her flick through so many emotions, sensations, each experience bursting in his mind like flavors upon a tongue. Its heady and he's almost dizzy when she settles back on fear.

 

“Don’t be afraid, Mallory,” he whispers to her. “The worst is over now.”

 

Then he places a kiss upon her fevered forehead and beneath his lips he feels her skin begin to cool. _Vitalum vitalis._ It comes to him as easily as the first time he performed it like a show dog for those damned witches. Less of a wonder and more of a parlor trick to him. Her eyes flutter close and she pulls away from him curling back into herself.

 

At the loss of contact, an impulsive urge rips through him to pull at her, rip into her until he's all the way within her. He wants to devour her entirely. He feels it like a hunger, a thirst, a base desire. He reaches out for her again but this time he doesn't touch her. Michael had lied. The worst is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah. PS feel free to send death threats to stoppunchingmyllama dot tumblr dot com. Or just send a check. Either way. Just scream at me. anyways. Laters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall. so. sorry for the long hiatus. ya gurl went and watched the rest of the season and tbh it fucked me up a little bit. made me think about shit. I actually kinda liked it but it was super incongruous to what I had planned. And I've got no plans to reconcile my fic with canon but it did give me a lot to think about. Anyway! This shit ain't edited or beta'd as usual so gird your loins, fuckos. As always you can direct your complaints and death threats to the barren, damp cave in the woods where I spend my winter months or to stoppunchingmyllama dot tumblr dot com.
> 
> see ya!

Michael steps back. His breath comes sharp, sudden. He can hear the sound of his heart in his ears, blood rushing. The cold stone of the wall greets him as he leans back and steadies himself against it. Michael closes his eyes against the sight of her, closed up like a fist against him and he thinks of killing her.

 

It would be easy. She’s so small and the muscles in his hands contract at the thought of twisting them around her pretty little neck and squeezing until her eyes bug and her teeth crack. His chest aches, something is ringing in him like a single bell chiming. He remembers the feel of her neck beneath his fingers. He tries to forget the softness of her cheek, the darkness behind her eyes. He could snap her like a twig and nothing would change. The world wouldn't even notice, wouldn't feel the loss of her. She’s buried so far beneath the earth already. She might as well be dead.

 

But then, after a while, the inexplicable tugging in his chest ceases. His hands have stilled, no longer humming with violent intent. He opens his eyes to see her still curled into herself. Her skin is no longer sallow. It glows in the low light all thanks to him. How wasteful, how hedonistic it would be to snuff out this light now. The thought delights him. She is golden and fresh and, he thinks, without blemish. But then he sees, just to the left of her spine nearly at the center of her back, above where her heart should be, a dark, irregular shape. A birthmark. A flaw. Seeing it there, he feels she has just shared a secret with him.

 

Then, she unfurls. Michael watches like a man possessed. She is blooming before him, a rare flower. The kind that only blooms once every twenty years and smells like a rotting corpse. Beauty and horror. Life and death. This seems to be a habit of Mallory’s, to embody these dichotomies and it thrills him to no end.

 

She unfurls. But just her body. The rest of her, the soul, the pit of her stays wound up tight. All it would take is a little pressure, a short, sudden tug from him and she would come undone. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t tug. He lets her bury her dark parts, the same ones she claimed she didn’t have. He’ll let her go. For now.

 

Her shoulders stiffen and she glances over her shoulder at him as though she’s only just realized that he’s there. Her face is somehow different now. Foreign. Guarded in a way that it wasn’t before. Mallory seems to have gathered herself and there’s a placidity to her now, a stagnation. She sits there for a few more moments, the cloth is still in her hand, but she doesn’t make a move.

 

“Once you’re clean, come meet me in the interviewing area,” he says, his voice only wavering once and ever so slightly when she catches the right side of her bottom lip between her teeth. “Then we can begin.”

 

“Begin?” she replies softly releasing the soft flesh of her lips from her teeth. It’s rosy from her attentions.

 

He smiles. He doesn’t know why. For a man like Michael, a smile is rarely just a smile. A smile is tool, a weapon, a last ditch gambit if it needs to be. But he smiles. At what? At the rosy color in her lip? The birthmark, the secret on her back connecting them like an umbilical cord? At the memory of her neck like a thin reed in his hands? He doesn’t know. He smiles like he did when she had stared up at him with blood in her teeth and red ringed eyes. It is a compulsion.

 

“Why, the second interviews, Mallory,” he says in mock admonition, savoring the look of confusion and dawning dismay on her face. “Congratulations on making it to the next round.”

 

* * *

 

 _Second interview_.

 

Mallory isn’t sure how she’s supposed to take that. The memory of her first interview wells up in her mind. How he loomed above her like the shadow of Death itself. How he put his hand upon her thigh and squeezed when he talked about burning trees. She remembers the fire.

 

 _Second interview_.

 

She considers making a run for it. Mallory is a runner. For some reason, this statement feels incongruous to her despite it being true by all memory she can muster about her own life. She ran from the shit town she grew up in. She ran from her parents who seem barely real in retrospect. She ran from own mother when the apocalypse came calling, too afraid of what it would mean to die facing a woman who was a stranger at best to her despite the fact that Mallory should _love_ her.

 

However, as soon as the thought occurs to her, Mallory realizes there’s no place to run. It’s nuclear winter above, poisoned apples and what she thinks may be a serial killer below. Still, there’s a voice in her head that urges her forward. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t ask questions. Just survive. Just _run_.

 

Mallory exists the bathroom once the smell of blood and barf has faded enough for it go unnoticed. There’s no towels, no Greys left to restock them. So she walks out into the relatively large bedroom nude. She wonders briefly whose room she’s in. Personal items were nearly null in Outpost 3. Mead and her goons had taken everything from them when they first entered so there was no way to tell from the few scant items that are peppered throughout the room. There are two twin-sized beds in the room. One is a mess and the other still pristine. A hairbrush sit askew on a desk set up against the far wall. The evidences of a life lived. But now, that life was done, no one left to live it.

 

Mallory is amazed to find a fresh change of grays laid out for her on the bed that was still made up. She can’t imagine that Michael would lower himself to do something so menial. It’s then that she remembers Mead. The room shrinks and she feels somehow desecrated by this simple gesture. There’s nothing in it, Mallory knows this. Less than twenty minutes ago, a man she had met only days ago had just had his hand around her throat while she sat prone and naked in a bathtub but after so long of doing everything, not only for herself but from everyone else as well, it feels like a violation to have things done for her.

 

Mallory dresses in a haze, her mind oscillating between fight, flight, and freeze. She tries to takes stock of what she knows but finds she knows very little and the things she was once sure of are suddenly on shaky ground.

 

_Her name is Mallory Wilson. Her mother’s name is Caroline. Her father is Sam. A year ago the world ended._

 

_Her name is Mall - ory Wilson. Her mother’s name - doesn’t matter. She’s d - e - a - d. Her father is - dead too. An hour ago, the other twenty people she’s lived with for the past year died choking on their own blood and spit._

 

_Her name - Ma - llor - y. Her - her mother is dead. Her father is dead. A year ago, the world died. An hour ago, the last people she's ever known died writhing on the floor like fucking animals being put down._

 

_Her name is Mallory. Her name is Mallory. Everyone and everything is dead. An hour ago she was - dead._

 

 _She was dead. She was dead but now she is not. How?_ How _?_

 

 _Resurgence_ , something within her answers back and it is clearer than anything else she’s thought so far.

 

This one word that she both knows and doesn’t know feels more solid and substantial than her own parents’ names. It feels more absolute than the death of billions. It burns through her like a fever. Something in her head is beating against a boundary line that she didn’t know was there. It rages at her. Screams.

 

She leaves the room with its messy bed and lonely, discarded hairbrush. A haze has settled over her outwardly. Within, Mallory is a maelstrom. She doesn’t know where she is at first. She simply walks. The only thing she takes note of the eerily empty and spotless lounge area. There is no trace of what had befallen the inhabitants of Outpost 3 in that very room, no trace except her own memory which was getting blurrier and blurrier by the second. She’s in such a state that it isn’t until she’s standing just outside of the interviewing room that she glances down at herself and notices the large run in her stockings.

 

Mallory is dwarfed by the great sliding doors before her. The gray of her uniform washes her out and renders her muted against the lush, pitch blackness. The doors are slightly ajar forming a tall, thin pillar of light. It is a sudden amber interruption within in the vast darkness. A fire has been lit inside, just like the first time and Mallory can only just perceive its warmth through the echoing chill outside. The light is cast out into a slanted channel of amber warmth. Mallory sidles herself besides the opening careful not to catch the light. Last time, she had been summoned and then invited in. No such invitation is made. So she waits. She waits for an hour.

 

When she had first become an assistant, her feet used to ache from the hours of standing, the running circles all over LA in three-inch heels. Now, she hardly notices that over an hour passes. She stands besides the slender opening, just out of the reach or the warm light flickers as the fire shifts. Besides, the sensible black heels she had been issued when she entered the outpost are far more comfortable than anything she’d worn in Coco's employ.

 

_Coco._

 

Her head snaps up. The trance that she's been muddling in for the past hour breaks. She tries to remember. The bodies on the floor. The taste of blood, bile, and apples on her tongue. She tries to remember their faces. Timothy. Emily. Their faces bloated, ashen. Dinah. Andre. Blood still spilling from their mouths like pitch black molasses. Greys all strewn across the floor in their cotton blend aprons and sensible shoes but no Coco. No Coco.

 

“ _That's_ where you've been hiding,” his voice breaks against her like a wave.

 

Mallory looks to the source of the voice and at the sight of Michael’s face she is struck suddenly desire to _return_. It is violent and excruciating. A soft gasp passes her lips. She wants to live in the cavity of his chest. She wants to devour his flesh. She is a wave shrinking back from the shore being sucked into the riptide and pushed out into the deep. Then just as suddenly as it comes, the feeling leaves. Mallory practically has whiplash by this point.

 

“Come into the light, Mallory,” he says kindly as though he is welcoming an old friend over the threshold. “Come out of the cold.”

 

He holds out a hand to her. No gloves just like the last interview. His skin seems to radiate heat, warmth, and comfort but she doesn’t take it. Mallory is afraid of what touching him will do to her if just the sight of him runs her through like a hot poker.

 

“Come on,” he says dropping his hand and turning into the room.

The room is set up different from before. The desk that he had sat in at the beginning of the first interview is still there but now it was completely cleared. There are two cushioned chairs situated near the fireplace. They are angled towards one another and between them sits a small table. Michael moves to the one on the left and sits.

 

It’s a strange sight, Langdon sitting. Almost every other time she’s seen him, he had had the higher ground. Always standing, pacing, circling even the seat behind the desk seemed higher than the one in front of it. But now he lounged, almost casually, in a cushioned chair before a glowing fire. He seems almost - _human_.

 

“Congratulations on your advancement, Mallory,” he murmurs. He sinks further into the chair and rests his temple on his knuckles. “This is the furthest that anyone has come in the process so far.”

 

There is not actual advancement or interviewing process of course. This is all a game for Michael’s benefit and entertainment but Mallory doesn’t know that. Still, she doesn’t take much pleasure in her quasi-fortune. This whole farce means nothing to her.

 

That’s the second time he's called her by name. The way he speaks the sounds and syllables feels somehow too close, too intimate and something stirs within her. She finds she cant meet his eye. She chooses instead to look into the fire, the memory of a surge of intent blasting through her, pulling the flames up around her like a robe comes to her unbidden. She remembers his surprised face looking up at her from his place on the floor. His question.

 

_Who are you?_

 

_I don’t know. Who are you?_

 

“Something on your mind?”

 

Many things. An infinite number of things and yet she can’t seem to grasp on to a single thought. When did she become so scattered? It is as though she is being pulled in a thousand different directions. She remembers. Coco. The lounge area, deserted and barren.

 

“What happened to the...the others? The lounge is empty. I passed by it on my way here.”

 

“You mean the _bodies_?” he replies and her eyes snap to him and he's smiling it must have been the reaction he wanted to elicit.

 

“Yes, the bodies.”

 

His smile widens.

 

“Mead was kind enough to dispose of them. It wouldn't be very polite of us to leave such a gruesome mess behind. Even if we _are_ planning to leave soon.”

 

How unsettling, his unpredictable adherence to niceties. He has no qualms about disposing of bodies like common trash but he has a problem with leaving a mess. He cherry picks how and when he wanted to be polite and it felt like a game of Russian roulette trying to guess where he would land.

 

“That's not the question you wanted to ask,” he says pulling her from her thoughts again.

 

He is unwilling to let her wander. Her attention belongs to him. Michael watches the wheels turn in her head. He reaches in and finds her hesitant.

 

_What is it? What do you want to ask me you, my fascinating bauble?_

 

“Was...was Coco with them?”

 

The question startles him. It wasn’t what Michael had expected to her ask. He thought she would inquire about the Sanctuary or that she would be focused on what comes next. It's his turn to look into the fire, suddenly irritated at the earnest look of concern in her eyes. He can’t stand to see it bloom to hope when he replies.

 

“No, she was not.”

 

“Then,” she says her breath falling back into her throat, her voice breaking. “Then she's -”

 

“Oh no, she's very much dead,” he glances at her from the corner of his eye.

 

She crumbles and he likes it. Michael wants so badly to hurt her, keep hurting her until she learns where her focus should be. There is no one else now. She has nothing but him and whatever fate he makes for her. To want, care, or even think of someone else over him, is senseless.

 

“Mead found her, a knife in her skull. Quite a brutal end,” he says the last part with perhaps too much glee.

 

“Who would - who did it?”

 

“Jealous you didn't do it yourself?” he says and her jaw drops as if she plans to retort but he continues without letting her do so. “Some diseased drifter found their way in and Ms. St. Pierre Vanderbilt had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. Mead made quick work of him though. So I’m afraid we won’t able to send our thanks.”

 

Mallory grimaces.

 

“So she’s...gone?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

 

She’s become so small now, shrinking into her chair. Her head has dropped down, her eyes focused on her hands that sit motionless on her knees.

 

“ _Dead_ , yes.”

 

Silences yawns between them for a moment but then she mumbles something that he cannot quite hear.

 

“I didn’t quite catch that.”

 

Mallory’s shoulders rise as she takes in a large breath. Her head is still down when she repeats herself.

 

“I was too, wasn't I. I was dead.”

 

“ _Mallory,”_ he chides. “Be reasonable. How is that possible? You're sitting right there, very much alive.”

 

He watches her reaction closely. At first, she is stagnant. Like a statue, she is. She barely even breathes. Mallory takes another great breath and she looks up at him finally.

 

“I _died_ ,” she asserts. Michael is fascinated by this sudden show of spine. “I was dead and you _brought_ me back.”

 

“Now how could you possibly know that.”

 

Her top lip twitches, nearly into a feral snarl. Michael is suddenly awash with the desire to snap forward and devour her, grab her by the throat and rip into her soft, pale skin with his teeth until all her blood and screams come pouring out into his mouth. He wants to drink them down like honey. Then, as if an echo of his own desire, as if she’s heard his thoughts, she lunges forward in her chair until she is sitting on the edge. Her hands have found their way to the edges of the arm rest, fingers digging into the fabric, her arms bent like birds’ wings. Michael things from a moment that she might jump him.

 

“ _Why_ ?” her voice is shaking. A small, round tear is budding on her eyelashes in her left eye. It finds its way to her bottom lashes, an amber jewel. “Why? _How_?”

 

 _Resurgence_.

 

Mallory feels the word within her, blooming like a red flower, but she can’t say it. She feels the thing in her mind pushing up against its boundary. The boundary is crumbling under the weight of whatever is behind it. It is shattering into the skin of her consciousness. She’s being cut to ribbons. Over and over, different voices sound in her head just like when she first came back. So many voice but never her own.

 

_Resurgence._

 

_A young woman with dark eyes and long straight hair, she tells Mallory that Death can be your friend if you let it._

 

_Resurgence._

 

_Dressed all in black, another woman tells Mallory that she’s safe now, no one will hurt her while Mallory is under her care._

 

_Resurgence._

 

_A woman who seems to be nothing more than the amalgamation of red lipstick and cigarette smoke tells Mallory that she’s died so many times, life and death bleeds into one another like water bleeds ink on a page._

 

Mallory feels as if she is all of these women and none of them. She knows she's never met them. They exist nowhere in the memory of her life and yet they seem realer to her now than the entirety her meager existence. Ever since she died, Mallory has no idea who she is anymore. She wonders if she ever did.

 

“ _Why_?”

 

His voice is like a stone around her neck. It weighs her down.

 

“Why not?” he replies with a shrug.

 

He leans back into his chair, his shoulders fall back and for the first time since she's met him he slumps. He doesn't seem to relax, it is more like a tree bending to a great wind.

 

“As to the how, now that's a little harder to explain. Where are you from, Mallory?”

 

“Practically nowhere.”

 

He nods. He already knows that's she actually from a small town in Colorado and she's right, it is practically nowhere.

 

“Have you ever heard of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies?”

 

Mallory nods.

 

“The headmistress was on the news a few years back, right? She said they were witches?”

 

Michael sneers at her last word but nods and gives her a pointed look.

 

“You can’t be serious,”

 

“As a heart attack, Mallory. They really _were_ witches and they had powers, abilities,” he explains with an even tone. “They also had names for what they were able to do. Latin mostly. You died and I brought you back using what they would call resurgence.”

 

And there it is. The word that she's been wrestling with for hours now. It seems so harmless when he says it. She feels the thing in her mind settle.

 

Michael makes a point not to tell her about Vitalum Vitalis. There’s no need to over exert her. She might just break and all the fun along with her. Still, he wonders.

 

 _Can you feel that piece of me within you?_ he thinks. _I can see it clear as day, like a piece of glass lodged in you. Does it hurt? Do you bleed?_

 

“I hear it's an excruciating way to be brought back. Was it?”

 

“It hurt so much I forgot my own name," she says but then thinks it over. "But then...you gave it back to me. You called me by name and I remembered.”

 

He tilts his head to the side, the golden curtain of his hair shifting like water, like silk over his shoulder.

 

“Should I say ‘you’re welcome’?” he asks, a grin playing on his lips.

 

Mallory thinks back, thinks of the sound of her name coming down like a sledgehammer to her chest. She remembers the blinding pain of being ripped out of death.

 

“I didn’t say thank you,” she deadpans.

 

His grin never falters. It widens, in fact.

 

“What _are_ you, Mallory?”

 

“I don’t _know,_ " she answers despite both of them already knowing that she doesn't have the answer.

 

Michael nods with mock sympathy.

 

“I'll be frank with you,” he says and leans towards her as though they are two co-conspirators. “I don’t know either but I think I know someone who might. Do you want to meet him?”

 

He stands and Mallory isn’t sure if she’s supposed to follow in suit. There’s a gleam in his eye that is child-like. He’s imbued with a new vitality all of a sudden. It’s almost frightening the way Michael has come alive.

 

“Come on,” he motions with his head towards the opening in the doorway.

 

She glances in the direction he insinuates. What was once a pillar of light is, from this perspective, now filled with darkness. All the lights in the outpost have been put out. Mead must have done it while they were talking. The sight of the utter darkness beyond this room makes Mallory squirm in her seat. There's a part of her that _knows_ that this man is going to be the death of her. Something has rested dormant within for her entire life. It is bright and livid, pressing up against the dam within her mind that had been so well kept, up until she died and was brought back. Now it's screaming and ripping at her.

 

 _He’s going to kill you_ , it says. _He is poison. He kills everything he puts his hands on._

 

“Come on,” he says again, gentler this time as though speaking to a child.

 

At the sound of his voice, she feels herself empty out. The bright thing within is silenced. All the women that are real but not real, that are her but are not her, dissipate like smoke. Fine. He's going to kill her but if anyone had the right to it at this point, it would be him. She’s already died once, a second go can’t be all that much worse.

 

So she takes his hand and decides to ignore the voices in her head telling her to run. She takes his hand and pushes back at the thing that rages in her mind. She takes his hand and his eyes turn bright and liquid with delight. Mallory takes his hand and resigns herself to whatever fate waits for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time on whatever bullshit this is...
> 
> lets drop big daddy satan a line!  
> oh and also mead. remember mead?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to call Zaddy Zatan! 
> 
> Also I know I said Mead would be in this chapter but it was taking too long to get through this part. Next time. It's short but I promise, it felt like fucking dying trying to write this part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess which bitch knows how to use google translate! fun times. anyway latin is fucked. this ain't beta'd and super short but I had to finish grad school apps. I'll get around to beta-ing this chapter eventually. 
> 
> Aaaaaaallllsooooooooo. So I know that in the show, Michael calls his zaddy on the phone like...right after his interview with Mallory but just pretend that its happening now. You know I’m a dumbass who can’t remember shit right? You think I give a fuck????
> 
> Also. I’ve finally got an end to this fic and lemme tell you, I can’t wait to emotionally ruin someone’s day.

With a soft tug of the hand he has in his grasp, Mallory rises to her feet. Even in her black, sensible heels she barely reaches his shoulders when standing. Her hand in his own is completely encompassed. She is such a tiny thing. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm with a careful tenderness that she thought him incapable of. It is as though he was handling a porcelain doll. 

 

Michael had always been fascinated with dolls. Once, when he was still small and able to be manhandled, Constance had taken him to a toy store and he had instantly gravitated towards the brightly colored figures. Their tiny smiling faces matched with their impassive, lifeless eyes, they felt somehow familiar. But it was their smallness that had enraptured him, how easily they fit in his hand. He wanted to touch every part of them, run his fingers over their smooth, blushed cheeks, feel the sleekness of their artificial hair. Something that would hold still and let him pour over it, let him devour it. 

 

But Constance would have none of that. She had shaken the precious thing from his greedy hands. When he resisted she had delivered a swift, teeth-clattering slap to his face. It had shocked him so thoroughly that he did not even cry out. Constance espoused something about him being “goddamned queer” then she had yanked him out of the store. 

 

They enter the darkness of Outpost 3 and Michael takes the lead. The ink blackness of the hallways are an ocean and Michael is a shark. He moves without hesitation, Mallory tries to keep up. Once or twice, she trips over her feet. Ever the part-time gentleman, Michael pauses whens he stumbles and waits patiently for her to gather herself. Everytime, she glances up at his apologetically but he never returns her glance. He is focused on the journey forward.

 

It takes them five more minutes of walking before a faint glow comes into view illuminating the end of the hall where it turns both left and right. The light comes from the right and when they turn the corner a door comes into view. The door they come to is like many of the doors in Outpost 3, tall, pitch black, with shiny golden door knobs. On both sides, a candle with in a simple glass fixture around it had been lit. Mallory has passed doors like these many times in the past year without much notice but this door, she is certain she’s never seen this particular door for above it there are words, carved ominously into the stone wall and painted in black. 

 

_ Homo homini lupus _

 

Mallory reads over the words over and over. The Boundary in her head burns and grows brittle at the sight so she turns away from the words above the door. It is Michael who disentangles their arms. He takes her hand in his own, again so gentle it turns her stomach and places it at her side. Then he opens the door.

 

The first thing that Mallory notices when they enter the room is the heat. The door leads into a short, narrow anteroom and from there it opens into a blazing circular chamber. The room is crowded with candles. They line the walls, are placed here and there on the floor along the perimeter. Besides that, the room was empty. It is so bright and warm beyond the door that it is almost unbearable at first. Mallory has only known darkness and cold for over a year now and all this heat and light makes her feel feverish. Her skin crawls and she hesitates to enter. Langdon enters at once with ease. He has no fear of the light. Michael glances back only once to smile that secret smile at her.

 

“So skittish of the light, Mallory darling,” he says over his shoulder. “Come here, you fickle creature. Come to me.”

 

And she goes to him. Not just because he calls her a creature or darling but also because she is suddenly aware of how cold she is. She feels so utterly cold and not just now or during the year she’s spent in Outpost 3. She’s been cold her entire life. Mallory isn’t stupid she knows that there is something missing in her. She thinks that something must have been taken from her and left her a Mallory is like a wind-up toy that was built missing a sprocket and though she can still walk around, sing her tune, the bulbs all light up but something just doesn’t click.

 

_ harmatia _ , whispers the thing in her mind and Mallory pushes it down. 

 

She passes through the doorway, the latin words passing overhead. She makes quick work of the antechamber and to her surprise, she finds Langdon undressing. He stands in the center of the room with his back to her. First is his long, black coat. As he works the fine dark buttons, he speaks.

 

“Did you know that years before the initial bombfall, this place used to be a boy’s boarding school,” he says still facing away from her. 

 

He observes the room as he finishes with his buttons. The chamber is about ten feet in diameter and it has a ceiling so high that it is lost in darkness even with all the light down below.

 

“The rooms you’ve been sleeping in, the kitchen, the lounges, they all used to be part of the school.”

 

“Is it normal to have a school underground?” Mallory drones, years of working for the young, rich, and vapid has made her adept at meaningless smalltalk.

 

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know it isn’t.”

 

He shrugs off his coat and it falls to the floor.

 

“What kind of school was it?” she replies, unperturbed by his admonishment.

 

She stares at his coat on the floor, crumpled and dejected. Years working as a personal assistant to wealthy socialites has given her a discerning eye. It’s obviously an expensive piece, well-made, expensive cotton but he tosses it off as though it is nothing. Mallory considers picking it up, folding it neatly over her arm and waiting patiently aside for him to continue. It’s a compulsion. Coco had been a thoughtless, messy individual but she also hated mess. She’d undress in a hurry, tossing designer and couture pieces about only to turn around and vehemently ask Mallory why her John Galliano gown was on the floor. However, Langdon gives no indication that he expects to pick up his coat or anything else. 

 

“A finishing school of sorts,” he says as he starts on his shirt, the cuffs, which is as fine and dark as his coat. “It was very exclusive,  _ clandestine _ .”

 

“A big, black cylinder sticking out of the ground in bumbfuck California reads as clandestine to you?”

 

That causes him pause and he twists his upper body just a bit to look at her fully. His mouth is a pressed, straight line and he arches one eyebrow. For a second, she thinks he’s going to admonish her again maybe even hit her. Towards the end, the Purples had become less squeamish about physical displays of displeasure. She had seen, more than once, a Grey laid out on the floor by a Purple. End of the world will do that to people. But, he is impassive only for a second then a wicked grin splits his mouth and he laughs.

 

“It isn’t exactly  _ subtle _ is it?” he says once he done laughing at her. “But then again, I wasn’t consulted when they were drawing up the blueprints.”

 

Mallory is a little taken aback. For some reason, laughing just didn’t seem to be something he was even capable of doing. Her surprise must show on her face because he laughs a little harder after seeing her. He seems younger than the gruesome figure who had first arrived in Outpost 3 a few days ago. When he had first arrived, he had been singular. A grim emissary, Death riding in on his horse. But now she is watching as his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. He looks like a boy. How old is he really? Early twenties, maybe mid. They could be the same age.

 

“Do you know what this particular room was used for?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Disciplinary action.”

 

He shoulders his left sleeve off and then the right. This too is dropped to the floor besides the coat. 

 

“You saw the plaque above the door? Do you know what it means? I don’t imagine they offer high school level Latin in Nowhere.  _ Homo homini lupus _ , Man is a wolf to man.”

 

From his pocket, he produces a knife. It fits perfectly in his hand and he opens it slowly. The blade is strange, rounded and black. Its finish is matte, like charcoal in the candlelight. 

 

“Man is a wolf to man,” he repeats and turns to face her, knife in his right hand. 

 

This is the point that anyone with an ounce of self preservation should know to make a run for it. 

 

“A fancy way to say, ‘dog eat dog’.”

 

He’s still smiling when he plunges the knife into his left wrist and Mallory’s jaw drops. He drags the plade up until a red line splits his arm all the way up his bicep. Then the blood begins the pour from the gash. It’s so  _ red _ and bright against his golden skin. It falls like water, so quickly that she thinks that this cannot be real, this cannot be right. He hardly seems to notice and gives the other arm the same treatment. 

 

This fucked up. Mallory  _ knows _ this. This. Is. Fucked. And she should be horrified. She should scream or run, do something other than gape at the sight of him, arm bathed almost entirely in red and dripping, his eyes like alight with a kind of frantic energy. And yet, she doesn’t feel or do any of these things. Her breathing is labored and her heart rate has picked up and yet, she feels somewhat at east. Something about all that blood, she’s drowning in it. She’s not anywhere near afraid. No, she's  _ fascinated. _

 

He begins to speak.

 

“O pater foedus impius, Et meas, quas fudi sanguinem meum, in gloriam.” 

 

The air thickens as he falls to his knees. 

 

“Corpus iacentis ad pedes.”

 

Spreading his arms out wide, palms to the floor, he begins to bow. His head dipping low. 

 

“Mea est anima tua.”

 

With that, he is completely folded in on himself. His arms are stretched out in front of him, bloody palms laying flat against the stone floor. Though not especially muscular, Langdon is certainly on the taller side. His shoulders are wide. He cuts an imposing figure but now he is laid out before her. It is strange to see such a large man made to seem so small and humbled.

 

Silence falls and Mallory is vaguely aware that perhaps Langdon may be in trouble. His body is still, blood still seeping out of him. It drips onto the floor. The human body can only lose so much blood before it’s K.O. She knows she should do something. Pressure on the wound. Elevate the limbs. But then, something rumbles through the room, not a sound, not even a physical feeling. It is something in the soul and growls. Her stomach drops. He begins to speak again but this time is different. His voice is harsh, nearly cracking. He is impassioned.

 

“Audi me, Pater. Audi fili tuorum fidelium. Quaerite me sapientia tua et ductu peregit opus in hac hora mea. Invoco te. Invoco te.”

 

The air seems to go still. What was once a room crackling with energy, is suddenly drained.

 

“ _ Invoco te _ ,” he demands.

 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, all the flames of the candles flare. They climb up to nearly a foot tall then roll back down. His head snaps up, eyes completely dark. She gasps. His mouth drops open as if he is stunned as well. He is seeing something beyond her.

 

“Father?” he says like a child. 

 

The flames flare once more, higher than before and Mallory shields her face from the heat. A gust of wind rushes past her and then she is floating in darkness. 

 

“Langdon?”

 

Nothing. Every candle has been extinguished and she had been plunged into pitch darkness. Her first instinct is to turn back towards the antechamber. If she can make it to the door, there should still be light outside. She turns and reaches out, trying to find a wall, the door, anything but her hands find nothing. She steps forward and slips. She hits the floor hard and cries out. A warm, metallic taste blooms in her mouth. Her tongue teeth ache. The floor is wet, sticky beneath her hand. She knows what it is. The smell hits her and the taste is in her mouth. Mallory closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. She remembers the candles on the wall, the candles on the floor. In her mind, she reaches out.

 

_ Please. Please. _

 

_ Invoco te _ , whispers the thing in her head and she feels warmth seep into her.

 

Not from the blood. The blood has gone cold at this point, congealing beneath her hands and knees. It’s something else. Like the sun, like a fire. It is blooming in her chest like someone has breathed hotly between her breasts. 

 

“Invoco te,” she whispers and opens her eyes to light. 

 

Not blazing and bright like before, only a few candles have been lit but it’s enough to see the outline of the door in front of her. It is enough to see the blood on the floor. She crawls forward a little ways, she’s halfway through the antechamber when she looks back. 

 

She could leave him. He is laid out on his side, facing away from her, completely still. There’s not much hope left for him. He’s close to being, if not already, bled out. He’s a lost cause. There’s no point.

 

 _Leave him. Let him die._ _Homo homini lupus._

 

But Mallory is no wolf. She is thinking of his eyes and how they crinkle at the sides. She is thinking of his mouth and how it smiles crooked. Of his laugh. Of his perfect face that is so boyish when unburdened by whatever grand role he is playing. She thinks of the way he said father. 

 

Mallory slips and stumbles to her knees. She tries to stand but she quickly Her hands are covered in dark blood. Her knees and shins are even worse but she crawls forward.

 

“Langdon,” she hisses at him. “You have to get up.”

 

From where she’s standing, Mallory can’t tell if he’s still breathing. 

 

“Michael?”

 

Her arms and legs wobble as she crawls forward. The potential that he’s dead is becoming more and more likely. The floor is slick beneath her but she continues forward. He’s less than a foot in front and she can see him clearly even in the dim light. His chest rises and falls and Mallory’s breath catches in her throat. Then it happens again and she bursts forward. 

 

“Michael, can you hear me,” she takes his shoulders in her hand and after some effort turns him over into her lap. “We have to put pressu-”

 

The wounds are gone. There’s no trace of the long gashes he’d inflicted on himself other than the blood. The blood, it’s everywhere. On her dress, across his chest. His head is in her lap, somehow his hair, even coated in blood, is beautiful. The gold in it still shines true. They are a dark red pieta.

 

“Did you see?” he whispers. 

 

Mallory is still dumbfounded that she missed his question. His hand on her arm is what shakes her out of her stupor. He is gazing up at her now. His eyes are back to their normal blue, so clear. He lifts his hand from her arm to ghost his fingers over her face streaking her red. Mallory balks. The bitter smell of blood fills her nose and turns her stomach.

 

“Did you see him, Mallory? My father?”

 

He sounds like a fevered child and even more so when he laughs at the sight of her face.

 

“It looks like you’re crying, tears of blood,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter. “Don’t cry, Mallory.” 

 

He sighs and his eyes roll back into his head. 

 

“Help,” she whispers though her voice barely carries. 

 

“Someone please help us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand. yarp. It's fanfic writing month! so I'm gonna try to bust out as many chapters as possible for you guys. My goal is an update a week (not including this chapter). So drop me a line. I know I seem glib but honestly, your comments are the only thing keeping me going so lemme know yall are out there, yeah?
> 
> Next time:  
> Mead gets her say.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka part 2 of chapter 5  
> we're finally leaving Outpost 3 yall!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys have made this fic my second most viewed fic EVER!!! like you guys have busted the amount of views of fics that have been around for YEARS in a few months!!! thank you guys so much!!!
> 
> anyway I hope yall like it. give me some feedback if you have any. never feel afraid post anything. I've got like...zero defenders, like I wouldn't even defend myself.
> 
> Someone left a comment but deleted it later about Coco. Don't worry friend, I eventually did watch the rest of the show and was only mildly surprised that Coco had a bigger role to play in the story than just being a terrible, shallow person and I actually loved the Mallory and Coco dynamic in the flashbacks (what little we saw of it). I know I was super glib and kinda punchy about canon and whatnot when I started but I'm all bark and no bite. I actually would love to talk about canon and if EVER EVER you wanna leave a comment concerning just about anything please do. I usually end up responding. I'm a nice gal. I promise. 
> 
> Also!!! I made some playlists for yall...well actually I made them for myself to get to listen to while I write if anyone wants links just let me know.
> 
> enjoy!

Mead hears the girl screeching about needing help but doesn't heed her call at first. Her boy had not been overly transparent about his plans for the girl but it might as well be excruciating torture. But the girl keeps screaming. She keeps pleading for help and, if only to offer assistance to Michael, Mead seeks her out. The darkness is nothing to Mead. The outpost layout programmed into her head makes find the girl easy.

It takes her almost no time to find the right door. Behind it she can still hear the girl, no longer screaming. She's whimpering and begging for help. Mead sneers and weighs her options. There’s no sound from Michael, just the girl, whining for all she’s worth. Does some weeping idiot really warrant her risking

"Please,” the girl says from the otherside. “We need help."

 

We. Now that does warrant further investigation. She enters. Mead is no stranger to blood, to viscera. So the sight she sees when she opens the door is as unshocking as a clear sky in summer. The room is dim. She spots them down the barrel of the antechamber, ensanguined and tangled together.

 

Michael’s head and shoulders are resting in her lap. He’s curled into her, arms clasped around her waist. Mallory has folded herself over him, his face cradled in her arms. A tender scene had it not been completed covered in blood and the look of absolute terror on the girl’s face when she looks up at Mead.

 

“Oh fuck,” Mallory breathes. “Thank fucking god. Please help, he’s crushing me.”

"What have you done?" Mead hisses.

 

She has murder on her mind and a violent intent driving her as she approaches. A piles of black clothing sits discarded besides them, all ruined. She observes the situation before deciding the best thing to do is take care of Langdon before anything else. She would deal with the twit once her boy was secure.

"I didn't do anything,” she asserts fiercely which is rich coming from someone pinned beneath a fully grown man and covered in blood. “He isn’t dead but he's lost a lot of blood. He needs medical attention."

 

The girl continues to prattle. Mead had known of Mallory Wilson, just another Grey sucking on the teat of the Cooperative’s generosity. Before her great epiphany of who and what she really was, Mead had reserved all the malice and disgust she could muster for the Greys. They were pathetic, skittering things who no better than the dust that accumulates in the corner. Now that she’s fully realized, Mead finds the concept of the Greys just plain wasteful. They were more trouble than they were worth.

 

“Oh will you shut up,” Mead snaps and the girl is mute. “Blood loss didn’t do this.”

 

No, it would take more than a little bit of anemia to lay her boy low like this but magic is a rubber-band of intent. Pull too hard, aim it in the wrong direction so that it cannot follow through and it will snap back. Intent needs a place to go and if not the intended target then it will find some place else to lodge itself like a knife lodges itself into flesh, usually its source.

 

Mead is careful when she reaches her arms beneath Michael’s shoulders and behind his knees. It is nearly comical, the idea of this little old woman sweeping a fully grown man like Michael Langdon into her arms but that is exactly what she does. It takes some cajoling. He is stuck to the girl, arms locked around her middle but with a few tugging and deft maneuvering, she gets him up to his feet. He swoons and sways a first, leaning into her shoulder. His breath on her neck is shallow. As Mead steadies Michael, Mallory tries to stand but has trouble. The feeling is only just returning to her legs, uncanny pinpricks of feeling all down her skin. Eventually, she gets to her knees.

 

“Is he - will he...be alright?” she asks as she brings one leg forward, leans her weight on it and pushes herself up.

 

Mead glares at the girl as she wobbles on her feet. Mallory is winded and messy. In Mead’s eyes, she’s a loose end, a liability. It would make far more sense to end her now

"Just get the hell out of here!” Mead barks and Mallory is more than willing to fuck off.

 

She would have too, unsteady legs and all if not for dissent from Michael.

“Don't go, Mallory,” he keened; his head is still bent below his shoulders but his voice is clear when he pleads. “Don't go."

 

Later, Michael will deny this and neither Mead or Mallory will disagree with him despite knowing contrary. For her part, Mallory never forgets. She will always remember, his golden head bent low and his voice trembling like a leaf. At the end, she remembers always how sad she feels for him in this moment.

 

“Fine,” Mead says because even as a cold, unfeeling automaton, she cannot help but indulge the boy. “Get his other side and help me move him.”

 

“And get his clothes off the floor,” she adds as she turns to escort Michael out.

 

Mallory scrambles, her feet slipping over the mess on the floor. His jacket and shirt are stiff, saturated as they are with dried blood. Making an effort to be gentle, she folds each article over her arm and rushes out to take

 

His head lolls to the side and finds the side of her neck. He breathes something into her skin but even as close as they are she cannot make out what it is that he says. Still, she shivers. The warmth of his breath, the moisture of it causes her breath to catch in her throat. Her heart beats so loudly she thinks he must be able to hear it.

 

And he does. He hangs on to the sound of her heartbeat in his state like a liferaft.

 

Suddenly, Michael’s world sits on a horizontal axis. He feels but does not comprehend where he is in space. He knows not the time. He hears but cannot see.

 

“I don't - _understand_ , Ms. Mead. Any of it,” Mallory says, her voice shaking but clear.

 

Michael wonders if she’s crying. He had felt her tears on his face when she had held him like a babe.

 

“You don’t need to understand. Accept that there are things beyond your understanding and move on,” Mead says.

 

Her voice is low and severe and Michael can _hear_ the mechanism of her voice. A slight hum runs under the sound of her voice like a hornet is lodged in her chest. The air feels so full. Full of the sound of the hornet in Mead’s chest. Full of his own magic, his own intent shooting back at him with a force that would have killed anyone else. It presses down on him, squeezes until he is slipping back into himself. He hates that panic rises in him as he goes down. He hates that he parts his lips and whimpers. Most of all he hates that he seeks out something to hold on to, reaches for anyone, anything.

 

Her hand is in his, fingers interlocked. Did he find her or did she meet him halfway? He tumbles back under, falling into himself. The pressure of her hand in his is all he feels before oblivion.

 

* * *

 

 

Michael wakes to her face, pale as a ghost, above him. She looks a mess, staring blankly into nothing. All his hard work to boost her vitality seems to have been for nothing. Her eyes are shadowed. Her hair, still in that ridiculous bun, is tousled and dull. He can feel her, winding round and round within her mind. Always running away from him in there. Her bottom lip is caught in her teeth, she worries the soft flesh. In her stocking, he notices a long run that extends almost the entire length of her left leg. Michael reaches out to finger the shock of her pale skin beneath the charcoal grey of her tights. She jumps at his touch.

 

“Keeping vigil at my bedside, Mallory darling?” he croaks.

 

When she stands and makes for the door, he snatches her right hand in a crushing grip. Pain twists her face and she instinctively tries to pull her hand back. He squeezes harder.

 

“What? Worried about your ticket to the Sanctuary?” he goads.

 

Michael Langdon is decidedly easier to manage when he’s unconscious. He had been a thing of beauty even in his fragile state, perhaps even more so because of his fragility just seconds before. He is still bloody, dark circles shadowing his under eyes but there is beauty in that too. She and Mead had brought him back to what must have been his room. Mallory takes note of the laptop that sits on his desk, how it still hums and every so often the fan whirs.

 

“ _What_? No, I have to get Mea-”

 

She pulls back again. She squirms as he presses into her mind trying to find any soft spot to poke at. She pushes back but that only serves to stoke his cruelty. He presses down harder, feels her mind bow just a little under the pressure. Mallory gasps, her free hand shooting up to her temple.

 

“Fuck,” she breathes, her palm presses into the skin of her temple, eyes are squeezed shut.

 

 _It’s your own fault you keep trying to run from me_ , he thinks.

 

“You _should_ be worried,” he snarls. “If I die, so do you.”

 

Again, she tugs at their hands but this time with less conviction.

 

“I don't - “ she begins with her eyes still locked on the door.

 

He squeezes his hand again and she winces in pain but that does the trick. She turns her attention to him. Getting a better look at her now, Michael realizes that despite her outward appearance, this the most sober and clear-minded she’s been since she died. Her eyes, though shadowed, are clear and her gaze straight-forward. She’s still confused but no longer delicate.

 

“I don’t _care_ about the Sanctuary. I don’t even think it exists,” she scoffs and rolls her eyes but then she pauses and frowns. “I didn’t believe you when you said you came here to help us. I thought it was bullshit the whole time.”

 

She holds his gaze and he expects tears, for her to break down again, or at least for her to look away but her eyes remain dry and her gaze never wavers.

 

“Then tell me, Mallory. What _do_ you believe?”

 

“I don’t believe in anything anymore,” she whispers.

 

“ _Mallory_ ,” he chides. “Don’t lie to me. You can lie to the world, lie to god, lie even to yourself but never to me. _Tell me_. And be honest this time.”

 

“I _was_ being honest.”

 

“Then be _more_ honest.”

 

She licks her lips and Michael can't help watching the slow, careful movement of her mouth. What belief does she have? She never believed in god. Faith and spirituality had always seemed so superfluous. She has no job and even her status as a Grey that had at least provided her with some semblance of purpose was gone. So what does she have left to hang on to. Not even Death remains. She shivers thinking of that pitch black place. Her memory of it stark now that she isn't puking her guts out. It had been utter emptiness, darkness stretching in every direction for eternity but at least it had been an end. He has taken even that from her.

 

“I believe...that everything has gone to shit. It's a wasteland up there but it was a wasteland down here too. And now...now it isn't even that. It’s just nothing. And even if the Sanctuary exists, even if it's full of food and people and light, I know that deep down it’s a wasteland too.”

 

She’s leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees, hand hanging limply from her wrists. Her shoulders sag and lowers her face to her forearms.

 

He takes her hand in his again but this time he is tender like when he had placed it in the crook of his arm before. He laces their fingers together and pulls her closer. Mallory complies, leaning into him with another sigh. She sighs so much his sad, doe-eyed doll. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around her neck. His thumb presses lightly where her pulse thrums beneath the skin. This time he moves his hands downward. The skin stretched tightly over her collarbones, the dip of her clavicle. Down the center of her, his hand slips to her sternum. He thinks of the thing just below.

 

“I like it when you're honest. It makes it easier to see that empty heart of yours”

 

She flinches back at the mention of her flaw. Didn't he already warn her? Did she think he wouldn't notice? Death had not taken anything from her but rather had made it apparent that there had been something missing all along, his broken little machine.

 

“Oh don’t look so ashamed,” he says and releases her hand. “It’s one of your best qualities.”

 

Michael feels suddenly rejuvenated. The air around him no longer presses him into his bed. He rises to lean back onto his elbow. The scratchy wool blanket that had previously covered his torso slips down to his waist. He notices that he too is blackened by dried blood. The door creaks open and Mead stands in the doorway.

 

“The Sanctuary exists,” he mumbles offhandedly. “You'll see it when we get there.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mead hears their conversation from down the hall. Even when they whisper, she can hear them. Before the realization that she was not human, Mead had simply attributed her excellent hearing to a combination of a high aptitude for attention and a natural ability. It is amazing how much you miss when you’re busy adhering to a false standard. In her mind, the mind the Cooperative had programmed for her, she could have only ever been human but now her programing demands that she adapt to the new information.

 

“It’s one of your best qualities,” Michael says from inside his room.

 

Mead stands outside and from here she can monitor his vitals. He’s managed to bounce back in a matter of hours what would have taken even the most powerful witches and warlocks weeks or even months. This information, which she had not even conceived of just hours before, is so readily available to her now. Anyone else would possibly be destroyed by the realizations that Mead has been faced with over the last 24 hours. Most would probably choose to look away rather than see what she has but Mead has no choice. She must always look forward.

 

She enters the room and finds them in a staring contest of sorts. From the smug smile on Michael’s face, she can tell he has the upper hand. His eyes flick to her but only for a second before dropping back to the girl.

 

“The Sanctuary exists,” he says, gaze trained on Mallory. “You’ll see it when we get there.”

 

He waves Mallory off and lowers himself onto the bed. His eyes slip closed and he folds his hands just below his chest. He would looks like the perfect embodiment of peace and relaxation, if not for the blood in his hair. Mallory rises from her seat, a look of confusion muddling her features. Even the sight of Mead, suddenly in the doorway and wear a look of utter distaste, cannot shake the girl from her bewilderment.

 

“Dirty again,” Mead clicks her tongue. “Go. Make yourself presentable.”

 

She nods and begins to leave but pauses to glance back at Michael. She’s still confused but there’s something else in Mallory’s gaze that Mead cannot identify. But the moment ends soon enough and the girl is gone into the darkness.

 

“These sheets are ruined,” Michael mumbles, eye still closed, hands still folded.

 

Mead approaches with a slow, measured steps.

 

“I’ll deal with them once you’re clean.”

 

He nods and rises to sit, swinging his legs over the side. The effort breaks the placidity of his features. Though he is all but fully recovered, body still aches. He moves gingerly, carefully. Even in pain and filthy, he is still so beautiful, her golden child. Can a machine be programmed to love? To adore? These are questions that have no answers. All she knows is that her world has shrunk to the length and width of the young man before her. Eventually, he rises from the bed and makes his way to the next room over.

 

Steam rises off the water of the bath she’s prepared for him. It takes some effort to peel the rest of his soiled clothes from him. When she moves to help, he waves her off. He lets of a great sigh as he lowers himself into the tub. He dips his head down below the surface of the water until he his fully submerged. He stays below for nearly a minute before rising. Mead turns and makes for the door but pauses when he speaks.

 

“Stay,” he says. “I need help washing my hair.”

He leans back into the curve of the tub, hair still dripping red slopping over the edge of the tub. Mead rolls up her sleeves and sets to work. Once she’s finished lathering, he lets her dip his head back and pour warm water over his head from a small bowl that she had set besides the tub previously.

 

“Do you remember who I am?” he asks her.

 

 _Do you remember who we used to be?_ How _we used to be? You meant everything to me. I have never loved anything or anyone better than I loved you._

 

Mead fills the bowl once more and pours.

 

“Do you want me to be honest or kind?”

 

“Honest,” he says without hesitancy. “Tell me all of it.”

 

Another bowl of water before she speaks again.

 

“I am an android who looks and shares many characteristics with a woman who was named Miriam Mead. I am called Miriam Mead as well. And while I do not have access to the memories of the original Miriam Mead, many of the feelings and emotions that Miriam Mead’s memories evoked were used as groundwork for my current personality. I don’t have _your_ Mead’s exact memories but I have impressions, bits of code leftover to help make sense of contradicting stimuli. I know that there was a boy that meant everything to Miriam Mead and I know that boy is you and that you loved her also but I am essentially not that version of Miriam Mead. I am only what I am.”

 

He nods slightly but beyond that he gives no other indication of wanting to speak further. He slips further into the water until his chin brushes the surface. There are no more questions. The water grows cold in the silence and when the cold becomes unbearable, Michael rises and exits the bath.

 

They don’t speak again until he’s ready to dress. He lets her dress him.

 

“What is the status of our extraction?” he says evenly.

 

She works on doing up his shirt as she answers.

 

“I’ve informed the Sanctuary that Outpost 3 has been prepared for decommission. They have given an estimation of five hours until extraction.”

 

Next is his jacket, it is simpler than the other pieces he’s worn before and less formal.

 

“You informed them to be prepared for for _three_ travelers.”

 

She pauses in her work, smoothing her hands over his shoulders then dropping them to her sides.

 

“Three...yes.”

 

Why she pauses, Mead cannot say.

 

“Is there an issue, Ms. Mead?” he says evenly.

 

He turns to glance over his shoulder and his gaze is like fire. If she could feel pain, perhaps she would have balked.

 

“Yes. The girl. She should be dealt with. Her presence is a hazard and was not part of the original protocol. She is a liability that serves no purpose.”

 

“None at all?”

 

He turns around to face her fully now. His face impassive but something more behind the eyes. Even as cold and mechanic as she is, his golden figure, clad in all black, looming above her with a dark look in his eye makes Mead hesitate.

 

“She’s a distraction.”

 

Michael sighs, rolls his eyes. He shrinks back, suddenly just a boy again. He goes to his desk and settles on his chair.  

 

“Of _course_ she’s a distraction, Ms. Mead,” he says. “Look around. This world is over, the sky is ash, the earth is spoiled. It is a world emptied of all things and I am its king. All that’s left are distractions.”

 

Mead remembers moments like this with Wilhemina, so many moments over the last year when her former mistress had been brought so low that she physically bowed beneath the weight of her failures. Mead had learned quickly that it was best to leave Wilhemina to her own devices during these moments. The shame of her weakness being witnessed was worse than solitude. But instead of leaving Michael alone, Mead approaches despite all memory telling her that she should go. In a human, this is called instinct but machines have no such mechanism. It is a ghost in the machine, perhaps the ghost of the first Miriam Mead that motivates her forward.

 

She approaches him slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. Her hands fall heavy on his shoulders. He can feel the whir of her, the literal machinations of her mind clicking into place. It is a heavy reminder that this isn’t really _his_ Mead. She is a culmination of points on a plane, a gathering of data, numbers, polymer. Still, Michael finds some comfort in her gesture. Satisfied that his expectations have been understood he stands and continues to dress. Mead stands aside and does not offer anymore assistance.

 

“You were right though, Ms. Mead. She may prove to be hazardous yet,” he says. “I know what she is now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow Mallory manages to find her way to her room in the darkness but as soon as she gets there she realizes that there is not much there. Her room is practically barren. There’s her bed that sits in the far right corner, the head of the bed and its side pushed flush against corner. A small closet sits on the other end of the room at the foot of the bed. In it hangs one last set of Greys, a single candle that’s been burned down to a length of only a few inches. At once, she grabs the candle and searches the front pocket in the apron of her dress. Finding in the pocket a small cardboard box, Mallory lets out a small sigh of relief.

 

Taking the candle and box with her, Mallory goes to sit on her bed. The metal frame creaks beneath her meager weight. She places the candle on the scratchy wool blanket and begins to work the lid of the box off. The box is small, only about five inches by five inches. It must have been used to hold a necklace or some other such tiny trinket before. Over the past year, Mallory had been prone to pilfering small items and she would keep them in her little box. She opens the box and within it there are four items, four tiny crystal, a short, irregular piece of charcoal, a small sprig of rosemary, and a box of matches. All of them stolen, all of them the only things that truly belong to her anymore.

 

The first thing she takes out is the box of matches. The matches had been issued to her back when she had been given her status as a Grey. Greys were expected to light any and all the lamps in the outpost and put them out as needed. But when Mallory had received that first box of matches for some reason she had hidden it away in the apron of one of her other dresses and claimed that she had lost it. She had received quite a verbal lashing from Venable and Mallory’s rations had been cut for three days but after all that she had for the first time since coming to Outpost 3 something of her own. And now the box of matches sits in her little box, still unopened.

 

The seal on the box of matches breaks easily under her thumbnail. Even in the darkness of her room she notices the blood caked under them and is suddenly aware of how her clothes are also caked in dried blood. She slides the box of matches open, takes a single match out and strikes it on the red phosphorous. The flame jumps to life and Mallory quickly drops the box of matches and grabs the candle. She lights it on the first try and her room is dimly lit.

 

Mallory lets the candle burn for a little while before turning and climbing further onto her bed. There was a slight ledge created by a square depression above her the head of her bed that had been cut into the wall. Mallory let a few drops of melted wax drop onto the dusty stone and then placed the candle on it to keep it in place. With her room at least a little lit, Mallory clamors off her bed and stands to get a better look at herself. Seeing the bloody state she’s in yet again turns her stomach and she begins to strip and did not stop until she stood before her bed in only her underwear.

 

Still standing, she begins to remove the other items in her box. She removes the four tiny crystals first. When she, Coco, and Gallant had entered Outpost 3, all of their personal items had been confiscated. This included their clothes, any jewelry or accessories, even their phones. Coco had put up such a fuss when they had taken her phone, a tacky bedazzled monstrosity that would have been cheap too if not for the fact that it had been inlaid with Swarovski crystals. Coco had screamed and practically assaulted the poor sap who had been ordered to remove the phone. In the fray, no one but Mallory seemed to notice the four crystals that fell to the floor from the phone case. Before they had been ushered further into the outpost, Mallory had quickly snatched the glittering jewels up. She had told herself that it was so she could return them to Coco but she knew even that that was a lie. Mallory would fall asleep many a night with the feeling the crystals’ sharp edges digging into the skin of her palm, forming dark impression where they cut into her.

 

She holds them in her palm again. This is all that remains of Coco now. On her way back to her room, Mallory had also stopped to check in on the other woman’s rooms and found it entirely devoid. Not only had Coco’s personal affects been taken but the bed had been stripped, mattress removed.

 

“I miss you,” Mallory says to four shining crystals but they seem unconvinced.

 

“I miss you,” Mallory says to the empty room and her statement feels just as hollow.

 

She says it again trying with what feels like Herculean effort to sound more sincere, more honest like Langdon had told her to be. She says it again this time, tears well up in her eyes but not because of Coco. She’s frustrated because no matter how she tries, Mallory knows that she doesn’t miss Coco. What she misses is having something, anything from her old life to hold on to. Coco was a selfish, petty, _empty_ bitch but she was the last living connection to a time when Mallory felt like she knew what the hell was going on in her life.

 

There had been a time when Mallory felt like there was more between she and Coco than between an employer and employee. At the beginning of her employment, Coco had been almost pleasant and there was something oddly nostalgic about her to Mallory. There had been some comfort in being near to Coco like remembering something that you had forgotten for years. Even as the relationship began to sour and Coco became crueler and more vindictive, there was still that familiarity that existed between them a belonging that Mallory could neither explain nor abandon. And Mallory thought that perhaps Coco had felt it too because no matter how many times she had threatened to fire Mallory and ruin her career, Coco had never gone through with it. She had always kept Mallory tied to her side.

 

Mallory doesn’t miss Coco but Mallory but she misses _something_. Mallory longs for something she cannot name. For some reason, her thoughts suddenly turn to Langdon and the feeling his hand over her sternum. His skin against hers had been so warm, blooming across her chest almost exactly like that feeling she had when the candles had lit on their own before. She shakes the memory off and instead unpacks the rest of the items within her box and places them in a neat row on the shelf besides her candle. First the crystals, then the sprig, the charcoal and the matches.

 

Still clad only in her underwear, Mallory lies down in her bed. Above her head is the flame and the only things she owns in this whole ruined world. The air is frigid and makes her skin raise with goose pimples but she doesn’t get under the covers. She lies flat on her back and closes her eyes. Mallory chooses the cold. She’s had her fill of warmth and fire for now.

 

The sound of her door snapping open jolts Mallory into consciousness. She had no way to know how long she’s slept but her candle has burned out. Mead stands in the open door way, in her hand a lamp.

 

“I told you to get clean,” Mead grumbles. “Just get dressed and come to the decontamination area.”

 

Mallory has no time to respond as Mead quickly turns and leaves. The door is left ajar and Mallory can see from her place on the bed that the hallway lamps have been lit. She dresses as quickly as she can, grateful for the clean set of clothes in her closet. She still feels the grime and filth still on her but the fresh clothes provide some relief. She turns to the ledge where the crystals, the charcoal, the sprig and matches still sit. The open box is still on her bed where she left it. Mallory pauses but before even a minute can pass she turns and leaves. The door to the room where all vestiges of her old life are is left ajar.

 

When she arrives at the decontamination area, Langdon is halfway in his suit already. Mead stands aside and eyes Mallory warily from her place besides Langdon. Only one other suit has been prepared. A cold stab of fear strikes her. Two suits and three people, she takes a step back. She should have known. She should have _known_.

 

“Well come on,” Langdon says as he zips up the front of his suit. “If you don’t hurry, I might decide to leave you behind.”

 

He motions towards the other suit.

 

“That one’s yours. Get it on,” he says as he picks up his helmet. When she doesn’t move he adds, “ _quickly_.”

 

Mallory moves at his insistence but she isn’t very good at putting the suit on. It’s  heavy and she’s only ever worn one once. Mead steps forward and helps her. Once the rest of the suit is on, Mead secures the helmet on to Mallory’s head. Her vision is significantly restricted. Mallory can only see ahead of her now. Mead pushes forward and Mallory begins to walk. Ahead of her, she can see Langdon. He continues upward.

 

There is a sudden pop of air as Langdon releases the sealed door above them and the cacophony of the outside world comes rushing in. Even through her bio suit she can feel the cold of nuclear winter beat against her body. The suit keeps out the radiation, but not the cold, not perfectly anyway. Wind howls. Dust and mist whips around them as they break through the surface of the Earth. She watches as small pebbles roll across barren ground carried by the strength of great, rambling gusts.

 

Curiously, Mead follows them out into the open air. She wears no suit but seems not to care. It is she who takes the lead, walking out beyond the bleak, cylindric maze of the outpost’s outer walls. He seems to sense her question because he turns to her and follows her gaze to Mead. She fees rather than sees him smiling behind that mask of his.

 

“No more pretending, Mallory,” Langdon says, his voice garbled by his mask, by the wind, by the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels of two black SUV’s emerging from the toxic mists into sight.

 

* * *

 

 

Three figures, cloaked and hooded, move through the mists outside of Outpost 3. They form a tight formation, one leads, the other two flank the first. The black, marble door yields easily to them with a wave of the first figure’s hand. They are a dark flood sweeping through the pitch black halls of Outpost 3, decommissioned only a few hours earlier. Eventually they come to a wide open room with a fire pit, long since gone cold. The first figure removes her hood to reveal a woman, blonde, with eyes that had not always matched so well. The other two follow suit.

 

Cordelia Goode, Supreme of her generation, heir apparent and blood to Prudence Mather, gives her command and all yield to it.

 

“Find our sisters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLOT IS FINALLY STARTING TO MOVE!!!!  
> ugh. it took so long. sorry about that. moving forward I hope there is a little momentum. 
> 
> anyway. please comment and all that. I'm trying to make graphics and stuff but I'm shit at just about everything so we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading!!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh. mostly filler. I split up this chapter like I did the last one but I figured I'd try stretching this out since I may be giving up on this fic. 
> 
> WARNING! Dream sequence ahead. Also Langdon gets a little handsy ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. again. it's crap and I don't ever edit before posting. I'm like an overly excited puppy with a new toy. and remember kids:  
> kudos are nice  
> comments are better  
> but nosy anons at michaelmalloryfanfic dot tumblr dot com get me wetter :)
> 
> that's my new fandom tumblr account. check me out, kids.

Michael Langdon is bored. This is as true of the current moment as its true of the last year or so. Oh sure, the whole apocalypse thing had been exhilarating at first. When the first bomb had fallen, Michael had felt such an intense moment of fulfillment. He had been standing at the precipice of the completion of his entire life’s purpose. He realizes all too late, what many a grade school genius may already know, that it’s a terrible thing to peak too early in life. Currently, he finds himself sitting in a car in complete silence besides the occasional hiss from Mead who’s operating system is working overtime on her update and needs to let off heat and a sleepy sigh from Mallory who is fast asleep.

 

Michael Langdon is bored and so through his subjectivity he has always been bored. The only upside to this is that he’s found that he has a propensity for finding entertainment wherever it can be found. And one of the most entertaining things he’s found is invading the minds of other. However, slipping into another person’s mind is a messy affair, even for the Antichrist. It can be discombobulating; memory and thoughts are rarely ever straightforward. Strangely enough, the human mind, which is supposed to be used to understand, seems to naturally resist being understood. Sight tends to take a back seat and experience becomes more about sensation. One moment he is in the back of the SUV. Mead is about fifteen minutes into her update and Mallory is across the seat. The next moment, he can taste the salt sea. He feels the cacophony of her limbs tangling around one another. The world tumbles over and over on its axis while the white wash pulls her under. He feels the grit of sand in her teeth when she crawls back up onto the shoreline. She’s just nineteen and it's the first time she's been to the ocean. He hears the echoing chambers of her heart. She is struggling to breathe, her chest burning yet she feels alive for what seems like the very first time.

 

There are other memories, most of them like an impressionist painting of emotion and sensation. Many memories resist comprehension, too intense or too faded into nothing more than a single feeling so vague that it has no name. But other things come easily, vividly. Pain is the clearest of all in her mind. How like a glittering jewel of broken glass, how like the revolving illumination of a lighthouse is pain in her head. He can taste her own saliva, pink with blood from biting her lip too hard, as her father buries his steel toe boot into her side for the third time. The memory is old, worn down to just the most intense bursts of pain and sadness. She’s only seven. Michael can smell her mother’s perfume when she drops down and curls around Mallory. The shock wave of her father’s boots can still be felt even through the shield of her mother’s body.

 

All this is both illuminating and not. She’s had a rough go of things but nothing that should make her singular. Mallory should be nothing to him, just another sad kid with a hole in her heart and yet he wants to feast upon her, gorge on all these moments of her humanity. In the darkness of the backseat, he looks at her placid features and feels her mind turn over. She’s beginning to dream. He can feel the tumult, fear, and intrigue pulse through her mind. In her dream, she is running. He can feel something behind her moving like a great, shining beast. It’s amazing how her mind can dream of heated pursuit but her face remains as impassive as ever.

 

He smells blood and feels panic rise in her. Dreams are always such messy, impractical things and he has never had much use for them. He is already disengaging from her mind when he becomes stuck in her mind like a pieces of fabric snagged on a thorn. In the physical world, he feels the communication device in his hand vibrate but he is hypnotized by his own image in her mind like Narcissus and his reflection. It is always strange to see yourself in someone else’s head. People tend to either exaggerate the things they like or the things they hate. Michael has seen himself hewn as a god, as an enemy, as an object of desire in the minds of others. He has seen himself so distorted to the point where he is unrecognizable even to himself but when he sees himself in Mallory’s mind he’s surprised. Not just because she sees him so terribly clearly, he’s like a photograph in her dream, but because of what she feels.

 

The car jolts, the vibration of the device in his hand has just ceased and a red dot pops up above the little phone icon on the screen. He feels her dream tremble. It buckles under the weight of her conscious mind awakening. Just as she wakes, the phone vibrates in his hand again and he answers. It is disappointing news but he barely cares, instead he focuses on how she tries so hard to steady her breathing. He ends the conversation with a threat and watches as her eyes shift beneath her eyelids. He waits for a moment to fiddle with his device but soon enough he can’t hold his words anymore.

 

“Sweet dreams?” Langdon asks from across the seat.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the two SUVs crunch to a halt and three bio-suited figures immediately hop out of the front seats. They hurry towards the other car, popping open the back doors. They extract from the second car what turns out to be a portable decontamination station. The three figures make quick work of the set up and soon enough one of the men are leading Michael and Mallory into the tent. Mead stays behind. She waves over one of the three suits and they discuss the next steps to decommission Outpost 3.

 

Their suits are sprayed down with a chemical cocktail and then they are led into another chamber where they are stripped of their suits and then its into the back of the SUV. As soon as they are seated, Langdon pulls out a device that looks suspiciously like a smart phone but like none Mallory's ever encountered. In the darkness of the cabin, his face is set aglow with pale blue light from his screen. His seem almost silver.

 

Mallory tries to peek over at what he's so fixated on but when he catches her looking he just pulls the device closer and smiles.

 

“Eyes to yourself, Mallory.”

 

After being chastised, Mallory turns her attention to the view out her window. Finding it an endless of expanse of gray mist, she presses her head against the cold glass. Despite all that’s happened, she’s a little excited to be taking a drive. Mallory had always loved long drives. The first one she could remember was when she was eight. Mallory remembers that they had started out early in the morning, long before sunrise. Her father, still drunk from the night before, sat snoring in his recliner as they shuffled out into the frigid darkness. When Mallory thinks of this moment, the image of her mother pressing one finger up against her lips, purple and bruising, always returns to her. It’s such a fragmented memory. She remembers thinking how pretty the shiner darkening her mother’s left eye looks in the early morning light. Mallory remembers the ache in her own right side where her father had kicked her five times the night before. It is to this memory that her mind wanders as she sits in the silence of the back cabin of an SUV while they wait for Mead.

 

She isn’t sure when it happens, but before she notices any difference she’s fast asleep. And as Mallory sleeps, Mallory dreams.

 

_The outpost is a maze. Outpost 3 had always been a confusing network of passages, hallways, and chambers but now it is transfigured into something organic, nonsensical, alive. In the dark, she stumbles blindly and always behind her there is some burning, writhing thing that stalks her every move. It never reaches out, never strikes but she knows that if she stops running, if she is caught she will be consumed. So she runs. And runs. And runs._

 

_Runs towards an orange glow that is always just beyond her reach, around another corner._

 

_Behind her she hears a voice and realizes with dread that it is her own voice speaking._

 

_“Look back,” the thing says as if it has her own tongue in its blazing mouth. “Look back and know me again. Perish and be reborn.”_

 

_It’s a trap. She knows this. Knows that if she looks back all will be lost. A pillar of salt, a vicious wound is all she will be. And yet she feels her muscles tense, move beyond her will. She is turning even as she runs. Is she moving in slow-motion or does it only feel that way? She wills her eyes to close but her body is not her own. Every second she inches closer and closer to looking back. The bright thing behind her, the orange glow before her, her life hangs in the balance between._

 

 **Just a little further. Please, please just a little more and I will be safe** _, she pleads. To whom? She doesn’t know._

 

_But they must hear her because before she looks back, before the thing reaches her she is standing in a haze of orange and before her is a door. She remembers it and looks down to see Langdon’s blood seep out from beneath. Above the door the words are written but they are different now._

 

**Igne natura renovatur integra**

 

 _Behind her the shining thing hisses,_ ** _I_** **am the fire. I will birth you anew. Let me hold you.** **Let me devour you.**

 

_She slips into the room but instead of the antechamber, the candlelit room circling around, she finds her own room. It is both as tiny as she remembers but as vast as anything she knows. Her bed has become an alter and on it are her things, the crystals, the sprig, the charcoal and the matches. Kneeling at the altar are three cloaked figures. Blood pours from the altar like water bubbling up from a spring. Suddenly, Mallory realizes she shouldn’t be here. She tries to back away. The cloaked figures rise to their full height. Someone grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around. It is Michael and he is exactly like he was in that moment when she was no one, a nameless creature who had just spit up her own death like a ball of tar black phlegm. He is smiling when he wraps his hands around her little throat. He squeezes and she gasps but not from pain. No it isn’t as simple as that. It is pain but also comfort. Even as her vision bleeds to black, her windpipe buckling beneath his thumb, she is grateful, relieved even._

 

_He leans down to whisper in her ear. His cheek his so warm against her own and his breath is scorching in the shell of her ear._

 

_“This is what happens when you ask for it, Mallory darling.”_

 

_The last thing she sees is the curtain of Langdon’s hair falling over her like a golden curtain of light._

 

_The world shakes and the sound of great metal gears echoes through the dreamscape. All color begins to drain. Red from the blood that still pools at her feet. The gold from his hair that smells of smoke and secret things. The blue from his eyes that shine like the summer sky. They all fade until all that's left is -_

 

Darkness. She is thrown into the amniotic blackness behind her eyelids by the sudden shifting of the car around her, the crunch and howl of machinery sounds around her. It is a cacophonous reintroduction to consciousness and it takes a great amount of effort to keep quiet. For a moment she is lost, adrift. She tries to keep her breathing even, her eyes closed and then she hears from somewhere besides her Langdon’s voice.

 

“I ordered that the update include the restoration of all her old memories in full.” There is a series of no's punctuated by brief silences before he sighs deeply, “I don't respond kindly to failure as I’m sure you’re aware. Fix it or I will handle both you and the situation myself.”

 

She peeks over at him. He seems to still be completely preoccupied with his device. His eyes are almost silver in the blue light of his screen.

 

“Sweet dreams?” he asks suddenly and Mallory jumps.

 

“I - uh - sorry,” she settles on the last word with an embarrassment.

 

When she glances up at him she sees the tiniest smirk on his features.

 

“Answer the question. What did you dream about?” he asks sounding less than interested.

 

He is still fiddling with his device. He taps the screen with his thumbs, texting someone or writing something down.

 

“I was back at the outpost,” Mallory mumbles as she turns to look back out the window.

 

Instead of gray mists, she finds that its just darkness now, smooth like oil. Occasionally, a soft orange light would pass overhead barely detectable through the heavily tinted windows. There was an oily smudge where head had been pressed up against the window. She moves to wipe at it with her sleeve but winces when she feels a tightness in her left shoulder from sleeping in an awkward position for too long.  Mallory reaches up with her right arm to try and massage her crick in her neck.

 

“Is that all?” he says this time the tiniest bit of interest seeping into his voice.

 

She shakes her head, no. Rotating her shoulder a few times, Mallory presses harder into the tight bundle of muscles tucked under her shoulder blade. A spasm of pain shoots through her and she hisses. Mallory stretches, hoping to hear that satisfying crack but to no avail. She begins to work at the muscle again before she hears him call to her.

 

“Come here,” he says quietly.

 

He is still in the same position as before, so completely still that she thinks she may have imagined hearing him. Mallory glances at Mead who sits stone-faced, staring straight ahead. She too is completely silent and when Mallory waves a hand in front of Mead’s face she doesn’t react.

 

“Leave Ms. Mead alone,” Langdon sighs then he tucks his device away and reaches out a long arm to wrap it around her. “I said come here.”

 

Mallory’s first instinct is to jump back. She’s never been big on physical intimacy, more than one of her former partners have bemoaned her unwillingness to cuddle or hold hands, calling her a cold fish. But Langdon is persistent. His fingers find the tight muscles in her shoulder and begin to knead them. The sudden relief that his touch brings is enough to throw Mallory off her guard. For a moment, she forgets to resist and that’s all Michael needs to pull her in.

 

“You capricious thing,” he murmurs only mildly irritated.

 

Mallory can only hum in response. His hands are so warm on her skin and seem to know exactly where the tightness is. There is one particular spot, the root of the problem, that he seems to always just miss. He is so maddeningly specific in his ignorance that she’s certain he’s doing this on purpose. Instead of giving her release, he works at the areas around that longing spot and after a few minutes of this she’s practically keening for relief.

 

“Tell me more about the dream,” he says and he’s so close now that she that she can feel the warm air carried by his words as they run over her head.

 

“I was running from something,” she breathes and then hisses as he ghost over that spot she so desperately wants him to press down on.

 

He knows, he knows. Though he touches her where she needs him to his fingers suddenly lose all strength. They are like air. Mallory shifts hoping to catch the pressure of his fingers on the bundle of muscles that she longs for him to attend to but he knows what she’s playing at.

 

“I couldn’t see it but I knew it was behind me,” her voice is almost nothing more than a whine now. “I could feel it.”

 

She’s embarrassed at herself pressing up against him like a cat in heat. But the undulating shift between pleasure and pain is heady. Mallory is still half asleep and in a haze.

 

“What was it? What was chasing you?”

 

She’s fully pressed against his side now. This is the first time she’s been close enough to smell him when he isn’t covered in blood. He smells warm like amber and sweat.

 

“I don’t remember,” she breathes her head is spinning and she’s needy for that one spot to be attended to. “There were women there too. The women who live in my head. They were kneeling at an alter. And then - then you were there.”

 

“Dreaming about me, Mallory darling?” he hums into to her ear.

 

She begins to nod but then yelps when he suddenly presses down right at the center of her tightness. White flashes behind her eyes but the pain passes as quickly as it comes. She is practically melting as he slowly begins the knead the tightness away.

 

“Keep going,” he whispers hotly in her ear.

 

“You told me, you - you said _something_ ,” she slurs as the tension flees her body. “I can’t remember.”

 

Mallory’s eyes begin to droop and her breathing slows. Michael can feel her fighting against the darkness, against the comfort and warmth.

 

“Sleep, Mallory,” he insists, his voice is a purring in her ear. “We still have a ways to go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Zoe Benson is no stranger to death. Not even the current reigning Supreme can boast familiarity with the darkest art the way Zoe can. Only Madison rivals Zoe in this way. Despite its pristine look, Outpost 3 reeks of death. The witches can smell it. Its energy is rotten to the core. All three of the witches know this but Zoe feels the narrative of its evil of how it reaches back not just to the bombs but years and year, decades and decades of evil. It opens to her like a book.

 

Despite what Cordelia orders, the witches find none of their sisters in the abandoned outpost. The place is for all intents and purposes, barren. The shelves had been stripped of their books. The rooms have no mattresses. Metal and wooden bed frames sit like skeletons in their rooms. Much to their dismay, the provisions have also been cleared out. When they had taken down the first few outposts, there had been a plethora of supplies but now, the kitchens and medbays are cavernous in their emptiness.

 

Scorched earth. The Cooperative may be on to them and this makes Cordelia cautious.

 

“Split up and search the rest of the facility, but stay close,” Cordelia says her face grim as she takes Zoe’s hand in her’s. She squeezes lightly. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

 

“Any of you,” she adds with a pointed look at Madison who only rolls her eyes at the sentiment.

 

Almost immediately after this interaction, Madison finds a bathroom to hole up in and lights up the other half of the blunt she had rolled that morning. The place is empty and everyone that used to live there is either dead or long gone. No amount of searching is going to change that. Madison hated outpost runs and she had previously had no reason to be involved. As far as she was concerned, she’s given more than enough for the sake of her coven. She’s died a few times already for this little girl scout troop and then some. She didn’t really feel like dying again. So make no mistake, when her name had come up in conversation about the next and possibly last outpost run, Madison had every intention of telling Cordelia and the council to fuck right off. Except, Zoe had come to her first with her dark eyes and mournful mouth. Zoe had come to Madison with a worried plea.

 

“Please, M,” Zoe had said. “I have a feeling about this one. I think something big is gonna happen and I can’t tell if it's gonna be good or bad. I need you with me.”

 

She had reached out a small pale hand and laced her fingers through Madison’s. The next she knew she was cloaked up and hiking cross country through radioactive mists. Madison had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

 

“Madison!” a voice rings out and Madison nearly drops her joint in surprise.

 

“Speak of the devil,” Madison mumbles to herself.

 

Madison takes one last drag before leaving her little hovel to seek her sister witch out. It takes a little while and a few more shouts before she finds the tiny room that Zoe inspecting a little square impression in the wall that forms a sort of shelf.

 

“Mah-” Zoe begins to shout again but halts with a small ‘oh’ when she turns to find Madison leaning against the door frame.

 

“What’s up buttercup?” Madison says casually.

 

Zoe only rolls her eyes but Madison catches that small secret smile that she thinks Zoe keeps only for her.

 

“So you girls always split up like the scooby gang on these runs?” she quips. “Seems a little risky doncha think? You know the whole split up thing was just so Fred could screw Daphne’s brains out behind a dumpster.”

 

“Or smoke a joint?” Zoe replies with a knowing look but doesn’t press any further. “Come here. What does this look like to you?”

 

Madison finally enters the room although it’s so small there’s barely enough space to actually be _in_ the room. She saddles up next to Zoe who stands at the head of an empty metal bed frame. She’s staring intently at what seems to be a bunch of trash.

 

“Uh. Four Swarovskis and some crap,” she replies and looks around again at the meager room. “Listen, can we get out of this place already. I’m getting seasonal depression just from here.”

 

Zoe sighs but honestly isn’t surprised. Casting had never been Madison’s strong suit.  

 

“Crystal for clarity, four of them for each cardinal sign. Charcoal to absorb evil intent and a sprig of rosemary for remembering. Fire for purity,” she explains but the look on Madison’s face says that doesn’t follow. “It's a memory spell.”

 

“Who would be doing a memory spell?” Madison says and as soon as she does she seems to answer her own question.

 

“Someone who was made to forget,” Zoe unnecessarily replies. “We need to get Cordelia in here. _Now._ ”

 

Zoe makes to leave but before she can go Madison takes her hand.

 

“You think it’s her don’t you.”

 

Zoe only squeezes Madison’s hand tighter. Both witches leave the memory spell behind and seek out their superior, their hands still entwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Welcome to the Sanctuary! We have tasteful sweaters, chinos, and nefarious plots galore!
> 
> So. Idk guys. I've been feeling real down on myself lately. I just feel like...this whole fic is kinda shit and pales in comparison to other fics that are waaaaay better and more popular. I really wanna finish but I feel like my heart isn't in it. I'll finish the next chapter and see where I fall. 
> 
> Much love.


	8. I feel it too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Sanctus Manibus!
> 
> Mallory takes the Big Sleep or...well, she certainly takes some Big Naps. Mallory sleeps a lot in this chapter but you would too if you were slowly dying from radiation poisoning okay???
> 
> Also!! Introducing! Andrew Channing, Amara De Feu, Kimberly Jackson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys. this is...a big one. Sorry. It might be a little boring but ya girl gotta do that worldbuilding shit rn. I'll try to make future chapters a little more interesting!
> 
> As always, send all death threats via mail or to my tumblr (michaelmalloryfanfic.tumblr.com creative, I know). 
> 
> Good luck and I'm sorry!!

Chapter 8: I feel it too.

 

When Mallory wakes, she’s alone. The world around her is dark and empty. Her right cheek is hot and when she sits up there’s a slight squelch of her skin unsticking to the vinyl. Mallory winces and rubs her cheek. The skin is warm and tacky. As her eyes adjust, the backseat cabin of the SUV reminds her of the last few hours. The vinyl of the seat squeaks beneath her palms as she pushes herself up. Outside the heavily tinted windows, Mallory sees not gray, not pitch darkness interspersed with orange balls of light but rather an intense, uninterrupted expanse of white. 

 

Not knowing what else to do, Mallory lies back down and presses her cheek back into the seat. She stares straight ahead and breathes deeply. A scent like midday heat and musk hits her and she quickly breathes in again but when she does the scent is gone. A few minutes pass as Mallory sits in the darkness knowing not which way she should proceed. One last deep breath and Mallory sits back up. Her head swims a little but even so she opens car door. It is so bright outside that she has to squint. She blinks into the unyielding brightness of the room and takes a step outside of the vehicle. Across the room, to her right the empty air hisses and there’s a whoosh of air as an opening in the vast emptiness appears. 

 

In the opening appears a man. Mallory knows immediately that it isn’t Langdon. He’s too short, perhaps only a couple inches taller than Mallory. His face and body are illuminated by brightness of the room revealing him to be a simply but smartly dressed individual. Behind him, a much dimmer world peeks out. In his hands, he’s holding a tablet. His eyes are glued to his screen, his facial features obscured by the top of his head. 

 

“Um,” Mallory breathes.

 

At the sound of her voice, the man looks up from his screen. He’s handsome in a way. Big, dark eyes, a wide mouth all within a square face. At first he seems confused but then his face breaks out into smile that is at once too cordial but lacking in warmth. His teeth are disturbingly white and perfectly straight. When he tucks his tablet under his arm and makes a beeline for her, Mallory decides she likes the darkness of the car better after all. She falls back into the cabin closing the door with her.

 

“Mallory,” the man calls with confused amusement. “Stop joshin’!”

 

Mallory scrambles to lock the r.doors but it’s futile. As soon as she gets the doors locked, there’s a simultaneous chorus of clicks as all locks are undone. Outside she sees the man waves the key to the car. 

 

“Come on, Mal,” he says as though they’ve known each other for years. “Enough joking around. We’re already behind schedule as it is.”

 

When she doesn’t make a move, he shakes his head that same too-wide, too-white smile on his face. He opens the door and the light from outside comes pouring in. 

 

“Gosh they didn’t warn me that you were such a joker,” he laughs and shakes his head.

 

Mallory has never been accused of being such a thing.

 

“In any case, I’m just glad you’re finally up. You were in there so long I wondered if ya up and died on me!”

 

Mallory is still huddled against the opposite side of the cabin as Andrew commits this verbal assault against her. When he seems to pause, Mallory opens her mouth to speak but before she can get a word in he’s talking at her again.

 

“Not that I’m complaining or anything. Mr. Langdon said to let you sleep as long as you need and that’s exactly what I did. And look at you! Rested and ready for the day! Although the day is way close to being over already. But time is fake amiright?”

 

She’s squints at him from across the car unsure if he will let her get a word in. Andrew’s expression changes from amusement to apologetic. 

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Andrew Channing. But you can call me Andy.”

 

He reaches into the car but when Mallory doesn’t take his hand he climbs in to the vehicle to get closer.

 

“Andy,” he repeats and continues to hold out his hand.

 

“Okay,” Mallory says, then takes his hand and repeats his name back to him.

 

His hand is cool and a little clammy. Mallory grimaces at the feel of her small, slim hand enveloped in his. She tries to pull away but he tightens his grip on her hand and leans in closer.

 

“Sorry for calling you Mal. Can I call you Mal? I just feel like I know you so well already. I’ve been reading up on your profile while I waited for you to wake up and just feel like we’re close even though your profile is pretty scant with you comin’ from an outpost and all.”

 

“My profile?” Mallory interrupts.

 

Finally, she wrenches her hand free and scoots away from Andy.

 

“Yeah! Everyone's got one,” he holds up his tablet and waves it from side to side. “Even Mr. Langdon but that’s classified.”

 

“Langdon? Michael Langdon?”

 

Andy hums in response and continues to ramble.

 

“You probably don’t know much about what is and isn’t classified, huh Mal. I mean why would you. But that’s okay. You’ll have me to rely on for that kinda stuff until you head to the Sanctuary.”

 

“I thought this was the Sanctuary?”

 

“Well, not exactly. Hey, Mal can we get out of this car,” he says while jerking his thumb towards the still open door. “We got things to be, places to d - oh well the other way around. You know what I mean. We're way behind schedule with your orientation.”

 

By now, Mallory’s eyes have mostly adjusted to the brightness outside. After considering his request for a moment, she decides that if anything bad is going to happen then staying in this car won’t stop it. The lock clicks softly as she opens the door and begins to exit.

 

“Oh thank goodness,” he said and exited out of his door. “So right now we’re in Manibus, Sanctus Manibus. There are four other branches just like this one positioned equidistant from one another.”

 

He pulls out his table and taps on the screen a few times then begins to draw. In a few seconds, he shows Mallory what he’s drawn. There are five dots, each one representing a community. He's drawn a line from each one to the next to show they are equidistant from one another. He explains that they are currently in one of those facilities. Next he draws her attention to the three dots within the first shape.

 

“These three are Sanctus Corporis,” Andrew says then points to one last dot that stands alone at the center of the triangle. “This is what we would call the Sanctuary, Sanctus Animo.”

 

“Sanctus Animo,” Mallory repeats her nose wrinkling as the words pass her lips.

 

Mallory wonders if there had been some huge Latin language renaissance that she just happened to miss out on.

 

“The holiest of holies,” Jerry says his tone still joking and even a little derisive but Mallory detects some reverence beneath his glib tone; there’s desperation there. “That’s where Mr. Langdon spends most of his time. I've never been, of course. Even though I was on the team that help engineer it.”

 

He pauses in his verbal barrage for a moment to look at her from the corner of his eye. Gone is his smile, the frantic humor behind it and all that's left is a blank stare.

 

“You'll have to tell me about it when you go.”

 

His voice is cold, hateful even and Mallory skin crawls at the way he says “you” like could have strangled her then and there. The tablet is between them and to her left Mallory sees the opening that Andrew has come through. She gauges how much time it would take for her to get through it.

 

“Um, where’s Langdon?” she murmurs inching towards the door.

 

Then like a windup toy sprung to life, Andy lights up. The smile is back and unfortunately so is his chatter.

 

“Oh Mr. Langdon has his own schedule to keep. I don’t have clearance to know where he’s at any given moment and neither do you. Best to not concern ourselves with it. Come on let's get going.”

 

He walks past her to the doorway. Without much choice, Mallory follows him. As soon as she steps through there’s a subtle hiss of air as a door slides down. Mallory let's out a little gasp of surprise and looks back to find the opening completely gone. She inspects the wall and it's as if there has never been an opening in the first place.

 

“Well aren’t you just the most excitable creature.”

 

Mallory doesn’t like it when Andy calls her a creature. It’s different from when Michael calls her this. Just like it seemed to be less of a violation to have his hand around her throat than to have Mead lay out a fresh set of clothes. The hallway they have entered seems to stretch endlessly in both directions. Andy, eyes glued to his tablet, turns right and walks at a brisk pace. Mallory follows and as they walk, she notices that the hallway has a slight curve to it. 

 

They walk for a while, the hallway seeming to be just an endless curved tube except that every so often a hallway would appear but only to the left that would lead in another curving direction. Once, on their trek, one of those opening pops up suddenly as they pass. A young woman stands in the opening. Her head is shaved and she's wearing a similar sweater and linen pants combo to what Andrew wears. She too is entirely engrossed by whatever is on the screen in her hands but as she steps out into the hall she looks up and Mallory met with a an expression that is at first impassive but then melts to horror. 

 

“Howdy, Kim!” Andy says with that incessant cheeriness.

 

Mallory doesn’t pause to ask Kim what is bothering her so much to make such a face. For all Mallory knows, that's just how her face looks. And in any case Mallory gets the distinct feeling that the Manibus isn't a place that appreciates many questions. So she pushes on ahead, trying to keep up with Andy's pace.

 

“Hey, Andy,” Kim calls weakly after them but the woman’s eyes stay glued to Mallory.

 

The woman soon disappears beyond the curve of the hallway and Mallory is left alone with Andy once more.

 

“That was Kim,” Andy says redundantly over his shoulder. “She's a bit of a stick in the mud but she's alright once you get to know her. She's a code-monkey over with surveillance.”

 

Mallory doesn't ask what a code-monkey is. She doubts he'd give her a straight answer. Occasionally they’ll pass by a certain section of hallway and Andy stops to explains that behind this wall or that people do some hugely important job, usually some kind of experimentation. Despite his tendency to ramble he never goes into detail about what kind of experimentation they do and to what end. On that front, he is pointedly vague.

 

“For the good and improvement of the human race,” is as far as he explains.

 

He talks ceaselessly about things of such minuscule consequence that she tunes him out almost immediately. Andy is, frankly put, a chore. He talks about a number of useless things but most of all, Andy talk about himself.

 

“I was only nine when I started teaching myself calculus. I wasn’t very good at it but my point is that math has always been a talent of mine. Just one of the reasons I was chosen to be here.”

 

By this point, Mallory has tuned him out so well that his is voice is just a hum ahead of her. Instead, her focus turns to Langdon. He’s here, in this same facility but he’s left her alone. Though she knows she has no right to, Mallory feels abandoned. 

 

However, she doesn't have long to dwell on that feeling. Andy’s pace slows. The seemingly endless hallway has comes to an end and opens into a huge chamber. It's breathtaking, open and full of what seems like natural light and despite herself, Mallory is impressed. There are small pockets of lounge areas throughout the open space. Islands of large cushioned seats. Along the curving wall opposite of where she and Andy stand there are what looks like shelves of food. She crosses the room to it and is surprised to find that it is only a picture. She puts her hand up to one of the items, a vibrant image of a peach. As soon as her fingers brush it, the image begins to glow. In red lettering, a message appears and pans across the image.

 

_ User not found. Please contact admin. _

 

"Oh that won't work for ya," Andy calls from behind her. "At least not until we set you up with an account but let's not get ahead of ourselves."

 

She nods though she doesn't fully understand what he means. She steps back from the wall and turns to continue looking around. She realizes quickly that she and Andy are on the bottom floor of this facility. Above them rises four more floors, each one is another circle that branches out into curved hallways like the one she and Andy have come from. She hasn't seen this kind of space in over a year. Her jaw hangs slack.

 

“Pretty awesome right? I’ve been down here over a year but the Fib-Se still gets me every time.” he saddles up besides Mallory and watches her gawk. “All the Manibus were constructed around the Fibonacci Sequence and this is its center. Simulated natural light, the cleanest, highest concentration of oxygen in the whole facility."

 

She doesn't respond, but Andy doesn't give up trying to get her attention.

 

He moves so that he's standing in front of her, "So what was it like in the outposts?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she replies still in awe.

 

Andy gives her a puzzled look. Her eyes snap down and sees his expression.

 

She quickly corrects herself, "Sorry I mean, it was...it was fine, I guess. I mean I’m sure it wasn’t much different than what you went through.”

 

He lets out a bark of laughter. It's Mallory's turn to give him a puzzled stare.

 

“I doubt it,” he says and lets out another high peal of laughter. “I heard that outposts were barely a few steps up from being on the outside. Then again, I was never in an outpost, never met anyone who was. So what do I know?”

 

“Shouldn’t everyone here be from an outpost? I thought the Sanctuary was a fail-safe, humanity’s last resort.”

 

This elicits another laugh from Andy but it is sluggish, less amused and more concerned.

 

“Now where did you hear something like that. Last resort? Hardly! Here at the Sanctuary Humanity isn’t just surviving. We are thriving!”

 

The realization arises, Mallory has not only been abandoned but she’s been lied to as well. The air seems to flee her lungs and the world shrinks. The light in the room, which had just a few minutes before felt so warm, joyus even, feels cold and too sharp. She feels that she has swallowed a lead weight but Andy shows no signs of slowing.

 

“Well, we got more things to do so we should head out,” he chirps and turns towards the entrance of yet another.

 

The thought of another long, curved trek turns Mallory's stomach.

 

“I want to lie down.”

 

“Oh don't be a party pooper! You've been snoozin’ for hours. Plus I wanna get through your orientation before Third Block ends and then you can meet the other operatives. Not to mention we still need to get you yo-”

 

“Andy,” she interrupts. “I need to lie down.”

 

Andy looks at her then and seems to see her for the first time. No one who really knew Andy Channing would ever mistake him for being sympathetic. He’d always been a calculating, reaching individual but had learned early on to mask his narcissistic megalomania with a cheery, disarming affect. It made it easier to get what he wanted from people and hadn’t his method served him well? He stands among the few, here at the end of the world. And truthfully, he cares nothing for Ms. Mallory Wilson. It's clear from her profile that she was nothing before the bomb. He had read enough to know that her Grey outfit brands her as even less than nothing after the bomb. Andy was  _ chosen  _ and she was happenstance. Still, her face is ashen and Andy thinks she might not even make halfway through the rest of her orientation. He sees no other option than to relent.

 

“Well...you  _ do  _ smell like a day old corpse. Let's get you a change of clothes and you can get washed up, yeah?”

 

Andy takes her down another hallway that leads them away from the Fib-Se and its light but this trek is considerably shorter than the previous one. After about only a minute or so, Andy pauses before a blank expanse of wall. He types something into his tablet then there is a hiss and pop of air as door appears and opens before them. Andy enters and Mallory follows, both silent and somber. 

 

The room they enter is much like a hallway itself. Narrow, not much wider than five feet across but it is deep at least 30 feet or so. The walls are paneled with dark wooden doors. They are perfectly lined up in two rows, one on top of the other. Each door has on it it in silver and black, a barcode. 

 

When they enter, Andy turns to the left where a small compartment covered by a glass panel glows with a blue light on the left wall. He holds his tablet up to a barcode that has been printed on the glass. The compartment lets out a soft, high  _ ping _ and into the compartment drops a small package. Andy lifts the glass panel and pulls out a small square of fabric. He unfolds it to reveal a black tote bag. 

 

He holds up it for Mallory to take and smiles, “Reusable.”

 

Andy moves quickly down the line of doors. The clothing come in general sizes, S, M, L but they were made to fit large in an effort to fit as many bodies and body types as possible. All the items are neatly folded into similar flat squares as the tote.

 

“Now I doubt you'll be in Manibus much longer so I’ll just snag you a couple sets things. I promise I'm not cheap,” he glances back to wink at her. “I’m just practical.”

 

Andy stops occasionally at a door, scans the barcode with his tablet then pulls out an article of clothing. He grabs her a pair of dark brown pants, a cream colored tunic, a cardigan, and a heavy sweater in similar tones, explaining each item as he drops them into her bag.

 

“Seems like a lot but believe me, you'll need the layers once you get up to residential areas. Heating goes way down after Fifth Block.”

 

Next he makes his way all the way down until he's about halfway through the room. Andy opens up one of the bottom cabinets and crouches down to reach inside. However, at this cabinet he pauses. He looks up at Mallory then gives her a quick but obvious once over.

 

“You're a little…uh  _ practical _ up top too, huh? I'm not sure how well you'll be able to fill these out but I’ll throw ‘um in just in case.”

 

He holds up a small white bralette up for her to see while grinning. Mallory doesn't dignify his jeering with a reaction. He drops a couple pairs of panties in her bag which is quickly filling up. Last were a bundle of thick socks and a pair of brown ankle boots. 

As he hands her the socks he says, “you hang on tight to those. They're practically gold around these parts.”

 

They leave the room. Andy seems back to his old self, chattering away like before. Mallory remains silent. She barely registers that Andy has led her into an elevator that takes them up to the top floor of the facility. They follow the curling hallway a short distance until they stop in front of a visible door. Another barcode is printed on the door at eye level. 

 

“It isn’t exactly the height of luxury but I figured you wouldn’t mind since you won’t be staying long,” Andy says as he scans the barcode and it opens up to reveal a room not much bigger than her old room back at the outpost. “You’re supposed to be heading to the Animo along with Langdon soon.”

 

Without responding, Mallory shuffles into the room. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in luxuries that she would have never been afforded back that outpost. A small desk and chair set sits to the right of the door. On it sits a small lamp and besides that there’s a small black book. She makes to grab it but Andy swoops in and snatches it up before she can grab it.

 

“See that tech pad over there,” he motions towards a glowing pad on the left hand wall. 

 

It’s height and width is a little larger than the average hand. It glows blue in the darkness of the room. From the corner of her eye, Mallory watches Andy tuck the small journal into his pocket. She looks back up at him and he smiles. 

 

“You put your hand to that and it will open up into the bathroom. You can get cleaned up in there. Fifth Block ends in three hours. I’ll be back for you then.”

 

She nods and continues into the room. Andy stays in the doorway. The light outside cuts him into a dark figure. From her place in the darkness of the room, he seems to Mallory nothing more than a shadow. He’s still smiling at her. 

 

“Mallory,” he calls to her as she’s turning away towards the bathroom. “A word of advice. Everyone here has a purpose, all of us painstakingly chosen to fulfill that purpose. Everyone except you. I would suggest you find what your purpose is and soon because here in Manibus things without purpose get discarded.”

 

As he says that last word, his hand falls to the journal in his pocket. He stands for a moment longer, a smiling shadow in her doorway before saying goodbye and leaving her alone in the dark.

 

For a long time after, Mallory simply stands in the center of the tiny room. Her skin itches, feels far too tight. And the room, no bigger than the only other one she’s known for the past year, feels cavernous and unwelcoming. She glances occasionally at the techpad knowing that she need only put her hand to it and she can solve these two issues but she is rooted to the ground. Tears come unbidden, hot and painful. They close her throat and she chokes until her choking becomes sobbing. She falls into herself, folding like a sheet of paper. 

 

She has no right to feel sad, no right. She has no right to feel hurt by his abandonment, his dishonesty. But she  _ does _ . She feels it like a burning, a tugging like a rope is tied around heart. It pulls and pulls. She puts her hands to her heart as she doubles over.

 

“It hurts.”

* * *

 

It hurts, to see Mead laid out on the slab like a corpse. He'd seen her like this before, back when she had first been reborn through the womb of silicone and steel only back then he had been rapt with anticipation. The technicians had assured him that she just needed a routine check up made evident by the issues that arose during her update. Still, Michael insisted on overseeing it. He almost wishes he hadn’t. It is maddening for Michael to see her like this.

 

The room she had been placed in is empty except for the table she’s laid out on. The seamless white walls only serve to make the room feel even emptier, it’s hollowness more vast. Michael stands over her occasionally looking through the progress report that is displayed on the screen in his hands. She’s pale as a ghost and her face is like a statue’s. She could be dead. She could be sleeping but she is neither of those things. She is just broken. There’s a hiss and pop of a door opening behind him.

 

He straightens up instinctually, rising to his full height and says, “This system check is taking longer than you estimated,”

 

When he is met by silence, he turns to face the intruder and is faced with the unexpected and unwelcome sight of Amara De Feu, High Priestess of the Unholy Order. Amara would be a startling sight in any context but in a place like the Manibus, she is overwhelming. Unlike Michael, who has since arriving at Manibus adopted their utilitarian style of dress, Amara dresses in the great, sweeping silhouettes of the Amino. Her entire ensemble is black but is made up of intricate designs. Hundreds of lines created by hand-stitched piping flows in tight waves across her body. They stretch outward, from her right shoulder in a diagonal down past her left leg creating a dynamic silhouette that makes her willowy frame seem larger and more angular than it actually is. A square of black mesh falls over her pale face, floating just above the skin seemingly without any support. She is a nightmare, a vision and yet Michael is unimpressed.

 

“Amara. What an unexpected surprise.”

 

Behind her veil, her pale mouth splits into a simper.

 

“Veri Heredis,” she replies with a warmth that does not meet her eyes. “You were expected back at Animo days ago. I was worried you might be avoiding me so I came to see what held you.”

 

She saunters into the room. The fabric of her dress follows the movement of her body strangely, swaying in the opposition direction of each step forward. Despite this, Amara manages to move with some grace, caged in by her own clothing. She sidles up besides him. Michael resists the urge to hurl his body backwards, away from her. 

 

“They told me that you were overseeing the repair of some droid. I didn't realize it would be her.”

 

The warmth that was missing in her greeting to Michael is found when she looks upon the visage of Miriam Mead. She raises her hand as if to caress the older woman’s face. Michael almost goes to grab her wrist. He feels ill at the thought of De Feu putting her hands on Mead or anything that belonged to him. However at the last moment, she pulls her own hand back and turns to face him. 

 

“However, I was a little confused by the explanation. Surely a droid could be better serviced in the Animo.”

 

She wanders away from him. The ruffling of her clothing is loud in the silence of the empty room as she makes her way around to the other side of the table.

 

“It was more about urgency than artistry, Amara,” Michael says.

 

She stares across Mead's body at him. Her dark eyes on him are unnerving but Michael gives as good as he gets. Amara is the first one to break. Her eyes flit back to Mead's face.

 

“Fine, keep your secrets while you can. You know how I love intrigue, Michael.”

 

His name from her lips makes his skin crawl and he struggles not to cut her tongue out for its offense. Michael takes her words as a threat and most things that Amara says are. If killing Amara was that easy, Michael would have done it already. 

 

“She meant  _ everything _ to me once upon a time. Like a comfort blanket, I used to cling to her,” this time she does touch Mead. “But to lead one must put comfort aside. That's what she taught me.”

 

Her fingertips are topped with a pitch black cones that extend their length from the first knuckle to about four inches to the tip. But the rest of her hand remains bare, the pale, dry skin like pearl against the ink of her ornamentation. She runs her knuckles along Mead's cheek; her eyes snap up to meet his. She sneers at the disgust in his eyes.

 

“Hurry back to the Animo, Veri Heredis. Or else I may be forced to free you from whatever is that is keeping you away.”

 

Amara leaves and Michael is left alone. Five minutes and twenty-three seconds after her departure, Michael decides he has to tie up loose ends. He is going to kill Mallory.

* * *

 

When she wakes, Mallory knows she isn’t alone. Her body aches and when she tries to sit up, she fails miserably. To her right she hears a rustle of paper, there’s dim, orange light near the door. It takes some effort but she manages to turns her head to look towards the other body in the room and finds Michael Langdon lounging on the desk chair, a vision bathed in lamplight. 

 

In his hand is an open book. He is silent as his eyes scans the pages, His clothing is far more casual than before, a grey collared shirt tucked into a pair of loose, dark pants. Over that he wears light sweater. Michael does so enjoy the ritual and pomp of extravagant ornamentation but there’s a time and a place. The Manibus operate by the virtue of utility and so he has chosen to keep his manner of dress utilitarian.

“You’ve been asleep for two days,” he pans not looking up from his book.

 

His hair is pulled up into a loose bun, a few stray locks fall around his face. He flips to the next page, the soft rustle of the paper resounds in the quiet of the room. Mallory only has enough energy to groan in response. Her head is pounding and her mouth is like cotton. 

 

“If you’re thirsty, there’s some water here,” he says motioning to what looks to be a small plastic pitcher on the desk 

 

Besides it is a small plastic cup. Mallory stares long and hard at the cup and pitcher. At this point she would be willing to kill for a just a drop of moisture on her tongue but for some reason her limbs just don’t want to comply. Mallory squirms a little, willing herself to get up and get at that water. Ultimately, she only manages to roll over on to her side to face him. 

 

Michael looks up from his book when rolls over. She is staring at him, he feels the glare of those doe-eyes even if he cannot make them out in the darkness. She sticks out like sore thumb in the lived-in scene of this room. Michael knows little of what fate befell this room’s former inhabitant but he knows that she’s gone now but all of her things remain. His eyes fall to the book again and makes note of the page he’s left off on. He closes it, places it neatly on the desk besides the water and rises to his feet. 

 

He approaches the bed, “I read Channing’s report.”

 

It is less of a bed and more of a mattress that sits on a platform that rises about about two feet off the ground. On the face of the platform are some drawers and a cabinet that holds clothes that will never be worn again. To Michael’s right there are two short steps that lead up to the flat top where the mattress sits. The walls that rise up around the bed is lined with shelves heavy with books that used to belong to someone. They will either be repurposed or disposed of once they are both gone. 

 

He crouches down to her eye level. “You didn’t finish your orientation.” 

 

He hears her huff but he can’t see her expression in the darkness. Michael leans in closer, places his hands on the platform just besides the mattress to get a better look at her face. Her breathing is shallow, face ashen. Even as she staring at him, the dazed look in her hooded eyes tell him that she can barely focus. But she's in there, distrust looks out at him from her eyes. He doesn't need to step into her head to figure that out, it is plain as day on her face. And yet she doesn't fight him when he reaches out and presses his hand to her forehead. Her skin is dangerously hot, enough for it to be painful. He reasons with himself that what he is planning is a mercy to her. He is being kind.

 

“It’s no wonder you feel like shit. You never received your anti-radiation shot.”

 

There’s no tears, no trembling from her this time. Rather, she stares at him with unabashed suspicion. He stands and her eyes follow him like twin dark planets pulled by his gravity. They stare into one another, him from above and she from below. A moment passes but then her stomach croaks breaking the silence.

 

“Hungry? We’ll find you something but you need your anti-radiation injection first.”

 

She grunts in response, neither a yes nor a no. Her arms wrap around her middle as if she could silence her traitorous gut this way.

 

He raises an eyebrow at her noncommittal response, “Get up, Mallory.”

 

When she rolls over so that her back faces him, Michael frowns. That simply won’t do. He returns to the desk and picks up the pitcher of water. He pours the contents noisily into the cup. Mallory perks up at the sound. She twists her torso just enough to see him standing at the desk, cup in hand. He meets her eye as he takes a sip. 

 

“Please,” she croaks, the word barely sounds human coming through the dry cavern of her throat.

 

Michael decides that he likes her pleading. He wonders if he’ll miss it when she’s gone. 

 

“You want it?” he refills the cup and drinks deeply. “Sit up.”

 

Hears something like a growl from her but he can’t see her mouth. He doesn’t have to wait long before he sees her rise up. There’s something serpentine in the movement of her body. She sways a little, the fever bows her even when she is just sitting. 

 

“Up,” he demands, he can feel her glare through the darkness. “Come here.”

 

Her silhouette remains static and Michael grows impatient. He slams the cup on to the desk. The force of it makes her jump. 

 

His voice is low and dangerous when he says one last time, “Come here.”

 

Mallory squirms for a moment. Her eyes are downcast now, he sees the way her head is angled downward. Then, with shaky resolve, she stands and drags herself to stand before him. Up close, the blush in her cheeks is evident and her humiliation is clear. But still, she came. 

 

Michael fights a snicker back. He refills the cup, her eyes follow his every movement. The cup is full in a few moments but he holds it in his hand. He considers knocking back this cup as well but thinks better of it. He delivers the cup into her greedy hands and she gulps it down quickly. Too quickly, she chokes a little but it barely slows her down. She finishes the whole thing in almost no time.

 

He watches her and shakes his head, “Stubborn girl.”

 

Her eyes find him over the rim of the cup. They are liquid with fury but her body is too weak to retaliate. So, she finishes her cup and the rest of the pitcher while she’s at it. When he certain that she isn’t going to keel over he leads her out into the hall. 

 

Mallory is going round and round in her head. She’s like a live wire besides him. In contrast, Michael is resolved. There is one destination. He glances down at her and is surprised to find her already peering up at him. The distrust, the suspicions isn’t gone but with them now is curiosity. 

 

She quirks her mouth and her eyebrows are jammed together when she says, “The apocalypse still has night time.”

 

He realizes that this is the first time she’s seen the Manibus like this. The backlights behind the white walls have been dimmed and have been switched to a dark, desaturated purple.The ceiling above is completely black, dotted here and there by small points of light, a simulation of the night sky. 

 

“The lighting is controlled by an algorithm that follows the body’s natural circadian cycle,” he explains. “When they were developing this place there were particularly concerned with what effect life underground would have on inhabitants.”

 

He looks up at the ceiling and scoffs, “they thought stars might make people feel better about the world ending.”

 

He looks younger in the dark. 

 

“I think that makes sense,” she says with labored breath.

 

The fever, no doubt, is taking its toll.

 

“It was too bright before, like being an Apple store 24/7. It’s better like this.”

 

He glances again at the mock-stars above and they seem different somehow.

 

If she wants to voice what has her so agitated, she makes no indication of it. Michael also feels no urge to speak or prod her further so they walk in an oddly comfortable silence. It would have been downright amicable had it not been for the fact that she was practically half dead and he’s planning on killing the other half. They travel down to the second floor where the med-bay is located. Like anything else in the Manibus, the med-bay’s design is heavily influenced by utility. He leads her to a room that is devoid of any comfort or warmth. The light here is cold and bright, all the lines are hard, sharp. He has her sit on the thinly cushioned examination table and she watches as he prepares. 

 

The back wall of the room is lined by shelves. Stacked on these shelves are white plastic boxes all uniform in shape, size, and placement. Below each row of boxes is a barcode. All this is covered by a glass door that rises when Michael places his hand on a scanner besides these shelves. He chooses one box from the top shelf and begins to prepare its contents.

 

As he does so he tells her, “The clothes need to come off.”

 

She has the audacity to look scandalized and he just has to laugh at her, unable and unwilling to suppress whatever amusement he may derive from her. Soon enough he won’t be able to. He inserts the tip of the syringe in to the top of the top of tiny glass bottle in his hand and pulls the piston up; soon enough she will be gone.

 

“You’re body is heavily poisoned from being exposed for a year to radiation, anything that hasn’t been treated properly and stays too long in contact with it will become irradiated. Unfortunately, they don’t treat their clothes so they have to go.”

 

Mallory thinks it over for a moment but after a few moments he hears the sound of clothes ruffling behind him. When he turns around she is already down to her underwear. Her arms are wrapped around her body. She’s shivering, gone is the amicable silence. Her face is a portrait of annoyance and fury. 

 

“You gonna have a seat?”

 

She doesn’t move a muscle. Her eyes dart to the medical bed then down to the floor. She clenches and unclenches her fists. 

 

“You lied.”

 

He takes out an alcohol swab and motions for her to give him her arm, “You'll have to be a little more specific.”

 

“You lied about everything...about humanity being on the verge of extinction, about this being the last hope. It was all bull.”

 

“Yeah, you sure called it. Do you want an award?”

 

She recoils wrapping her arms around her body even tighter but its all for naught. He grabs for her right wrist and rips apart the cradle she’s made of her own arms around herself. He tries to swab the inside of her arm but she pulls it back. 

 

“I don’t want the shot.”

 

He sighs, “and we were doing so well. Come now, we're almost done.”

 

He reaches out again but she resists. She pushes at him, slaps at his hands. When he gets ahold of one of her wrists, she freaks. A burst of energy surges through her and she manages to both push him off and knock the syringe from his hand. The glass of the barrel shatters when it hits floor. Something about the sound and the sight of it sets Mallory off. 

 

“What did you bring me here for huh?” she screams. “You gonna fuck with me? Push and pull me around like a fucking ragdoll. Why? What’s the point? Everyone here has a fucking point? A purpose? So what's mine. What the fuck am I doing here?”

 

Michael stares down at the broken glass on the floor. Clear liquid oozes across the floor where the syringe lies shattered.

 

“You're purpose?” his voice is low and even. “Your purpose is whatever the  _ fuck _ I say it is!”

 

Michael feels as if he is splintering. He isn’t even seeing her. Michael only sees Mead’s pale, prone body on the slab. He is seeing Amara’s sly smile behind her veil as she makes her veiled threats. He steps towards her and she cowers backwards but he doesn’t let her get far. He seizes her wrists in his hands and clasps them with an unforgiving grip. 

 

“If I want to fuck you up, if I want to gut you with my bare fucking hands, then that's what I'll do. And you will sit there and fucking take it.”

 

He squeezes even harder and she squeaks. It thrills him and he hisses, “you’ll say thank you.”

 

Mallory is practically on her toes, he’s pulled her so close that he’s lifting her off the floor. Breathing comes hard for both of them. Mallory looks stunned and he can’t bare the look in her eyes so he unhands her roughly pushing her backwards in the process. She stumbles and falls into the wall for support. 

 

After, they are both silent. Michael goes back to the shelves and Mallory catches her breath against the wall but it doesn’t take her long to break the silence. 

 

Her breathing is still labored, “I know that I'm nothing.”

 

When she says this, he feels the searing memory of Andrew’s words like a wound in her mind.

 

“I've known that my whole life. You didn't owe me the truth back then, you still don't but it's what I wanted. I wanted you to be honest with me. I wanted to trust someone, anyone.”

 

Her voice cracks and he knows already that tears must be welling up in her eyes. Such a nuisance but he can barely contain the urge to turn around and watch her break. She’s so fragile that she can be nothing other than a hindrance but he can’t deny he’s relieved. He glances down at the broken syringe then to the rows and rows of boxes all perfectly aligned and fully stocked. Only one row deviates, one box missing. He knows he has to reach for the next one in that same row but he doesn’t.

 

Instead he stands still, his back to her when he asks, “What do you know about want?”

 

Mallory legs are about to give. She slides down the wall until she’s crouching against it. 

 

“I know it hurts,” she pauses to steady her breathing. “It's jagged. It feels like having a piece of glass ripped out of you or rope tied around your spine that someone keeps jerking around like a fucking yo-yo.”

 

Her words pierce him like a bullet. And oh how he bleeds. He looks back at her. She is a mess of thin limbs, of sharpness and sickness. The shivering has worsened. Even with a proper dose of the anti-radiation serum, she’d been in for a long two weeks of recovery. The shot that she had shattered would be easier for them both, less painful certainly.

 

As if feeling his gaze on her, she looks up to meet it. She looks as though she’s been shot through as well. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is the most enrapturing distraction that he has found in the year since the world ended. Her humiliation, her vulnerability, her  _ pain _ ; she gives all this easily to him. She is split open before him like some red, dripping fruit and Michael is starving. And a starving man, even one that is the Antichrist, the destroyer of worlds, finds it unconscionable to give up even a scrap of food.

 

So Michael relents. In many ways, resistance is a child’s game. He remembers his grandmother and how she tried so hard to keep him small, to keep him under thumb and how he had pushed back until she broke. He remembers Ben Harmon and how he had tried to fight back against Michael’s nature, against Michael fate. Ben fought so hard and so long but in the end he too is broken down. It is only youth that entreats one to resist and right now Michael feels so very old, older than he’s ever been or will be. Resistance is for the sated, Michael resigns himself to starvation and all the unlucky impulses that should come along with it.

 

As he comes to this conclusion, Mallory has closed her eyes. Her body sags beneath its own weight. He wonders if she knows how close she’s come to death once more. He prepares the new needle, knowing that it promises her at least a week of painful recovery and him an unknown but almost assured blunder. He goes to her. He tries to be gentle as he hoists her up and presses her into the wall to pin her up. 

 

The movement jostles her back into consciousness and just as she opens her eyes, he presses the needle into her arm. Her eyes snap wide and she hisses as the needle breaks the skin and sinks down into her flesh until it finds a vein. When he begins the injection she gasps, in pain surely but there is another feeling in it, one that is deeper than either pleasure or pain. He feels it with her as the serum enters her system.

 

He removes the needle but doesn’t press down knowing full well that because he doesn’t a deep bruise will bloom on her skin within the day. He retrieves a clear plaster from the kit and puts it over the tiny red dot where the needle penetrated her. Through the plastic plaster he can still see the hole in her arm and Michael runs his thumb over it. He thinks about what she said, about how it feels to want.

 

Michael leans in and whispers, “I feel it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys...can I just say. You guys are the BEST fucking readers ever. I was so low when I posted the last chapter. Super burned out and feeling down on myself as a writer and you guys were so kind with your comments and so so soooo supportive. I just wanna thank you guys again and assure you that I am gonna try my very best to see this fic to the end. 
> 
> Love you guys.  
> Bri.
> 
> Next time:  
> Michael schools some bitches on religious rhetoric  
> Mallory makes a friend


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